“Louise Barry, you are a goose! I shall never cease to regret that Lucy Everett had the training of you. Any other girl would be glad of the chance of Cecil Lauren’s company. He is the richest and finest young man in the state.”
“I—don’t—like—young men, auntie.”
Mrs. Barry glowered at her angrily over her glasses.
“Do you like woolly headed, stupid old negro men?” she snapped.
“Ye-es, aunt,” demurely.
“Very well, then, you shall have the finest horse in the stable, and old Abe shall teach you to ride—but I wonder at your taste,” sneering.
Molly flushed, but finished her breakfast in silence, and then ran upstairs to arrange an impromptu riding-habit.
By letting out the tucks in her red cashmere dress she made a very presentable habit, combined with the velvet-trimmed jacket, and setting a little red-plumed turban on her mop of curls she ran down-stairs in the gayest spirits.
“I’m ready, Aunt Thalia.”
“Whew! You’re like a whirlwind, Louise,” exclaimed Mrs. Barry; but she summoned old Abe at once, and said: