Once during some summer holidays when we happened to be at home, for mamma and I generally went to the seaside in July, a little cousin came to stay with us. He was two years younger than I and the only first cousin I had, for papa was an only child. He was mamma’s nephew, and I know now that he was really a nice little boy; he is a nice big boy now, and we are great friends. But perhaps he was rather spoilt too, though in a different way from me, and I, as I have said, was very selfish indeed. So we quarrelled terribly, and the end of it was that poor Teddy was sent home in disgrace; no one dreaming that it could have been “Connie’s” fault in the least.
I think, now, I have explained pretty well about myself and my home when I was very little. Nothing very particular happened till after my tenth birthday. I had scarcely a wish ungratified, and yet everybody praised me for my sweet contented disposition! There were times when I used to wish or to fancy I wished for a sister, though if this wish had magically come true, I don’t believe I would have liked it really, and now and then papa and mamma would pity me for having no friends of my own age. But I do not think I was to be pitied for this, except that it certainly is better training for a child to have companions of one’s own standing, instead of grown-up people who can see no fault in you.
Things happen queerly sometimes. What are called “coincidences” are not so uncommon after all. The first great change in my life happened in this way. It was in the autumn of the year in which I was ten. The weather had been dull and rainy. I had caught cold and was not allowed to go out for some days. I was tired of the house and of myself, and though no one ever thought of saying so to me, I feel sure I was very cross. I took it into my head to begin grumbling about being lonely; grumbling, it is true, was not usually a fault of mine, and it distressed mamma very much.
“My darling, it must be that you are not at all well,” she said, one dreary afternoon—afternoon just closing into evening—when she and I were sitting in the drawing-room waiting for papa to come in. He had told mamma he might be late, so that she had had dinner early with me, and there was only some supper ready waiting for him in the dining-room, beside our tea. I always dined early of course, but when papa expected to be home pretty early and not to go out again, he and mamma dined at half-past six or seven.
“No, it isn’t that at all,” I replied to mamma’s anxious question. “I’m not a bit ill. I’m quite well, and I’m sure it couldn’t have hurt me to go a ride on Hop-o’-my-thumb to-day.”
Hop-o’-my-thumb was my pony. I often called him “Hoppo” for short.
“Dearest Connie, in the rain?” said mamma.
“Well—I forgot about the rain. But to-morrow, mamma, I really must go out. It isn’t for me like for most children, you know. They have each other to play with in the house if they have to stay in. My only pleasure is being out-of-doors,” and I sighed deeply.
“You wouldn’t like to send for Anna Gale or the twins to spend the day with you to-morrow, would you?” mamma suggested. “I am so afraid that if this east wind continues papa won’t let you go out.”
“Oh, mamma dear, how you do fuss about me,” I said. “No, I don’t care for any of the Gales. Anna doesn’t know how to play: when she’s not cramming at her lessons, she’s cleaning the store-closet or making baby-clothes for the parish babies,” I said contemptuously.