I did not mean to hurt the poor dear little things—I did not, truly—I spoke a little in earnest, but more in jest, as I shook my head and looked round the circle. But to my surprise they took it all for earnest, and the tears even gathered in two or three pairs of eyes.
“Aunty, you know we don’t think so,” began Madge, gentle Madge always, reproachfully.
And “It’s too bad of you, aunty, too bad,” burst out plain-speaking Dolly. And worst of all, Ted clambered manfully up on to my knees, and proceeded to shake me vigorously. “Naughty aunty,” he said, “naughty, naughty aunty. Ted will shake you, and shake you, to make you good.”
What could I do but cry for mercy? and promise anything and everything, fifty stories on the spot, if only they would forgive me?
“But, truly children,” I said again, when the hubbub had subsided a little, “I am afraid I do not know any stories you would care for.”
“We should care for anything you tell us,” they replied, “about when you were a little girl, or anything.”
I considered a little. “I might tell you something of that kind,” I said, “and perhaps, by another evening, I might think over about some other people’s ‘long agos’—your grandmother’s, for instance. Would that please you?”
Great applause.
“And another thing,” I continued, “if I try to rub up some old stories for you, don’t you think you might help? You, Madge, dear, for instance, you are older than the others—couldn’t you tell them something of your own childish life even?”