“My dear, it is not your fault, but I’ve said it before, and I say it again—you are showy! There is something about you which makes people stare. Dear Kathie could pass along quietly, or sit in a corner of a room and be conveniently overlooked, but you—I am not paying you a compliment, my dear, I consider it is a misfortune!—you take the eye! Wherever you go, people will notice you and gossip about your movements. At twenty-six, and with your appearance, I ask you candidly, as aunt to niece—do you consider yourself a suitable person to live alone, and minister to widowers?”
“Well, if you put it like that, I don’t! But what of the children who shriek, and have holes in their stockings? Mightn’t they like me better just because I am young and look nice?”
I laughed as I spoke, but Aunt Emmeline was so pleased that I showed some glimmerings of reason, that she said suavely:—
“Wait ten years, dear! Till your hair is grey! You will age early with those sharp features. In ten or twelve years you can do as you please.”
I thought, but did not say:—
“My dear aunt, but I shall do it now!”
A week passed by, while I pondered and worried, and then at last came a “lead” from without. A morning dawned when Bridget brought my letters with my early tea, and set them down on the table by my bed.
“Four letters this morning, and only one of the lot you’ll be caring to see.”
Bridget takes a deep interest in my correspondence, and always introduces a letter with a note of warning or congratulation: “That bothering creature is worrying at you again!”
“There’s a laugh you’ll be having over Master George’s fun!”