For a moment Ailie felt afraid. She dearly loved a quick perception, but it was a gift, she felt, a niece might have too young.
“How in the world did you know that, Bud?” she asked.
“I just guessed they'd be doing it,” said Bud, “'cause it's what I would do if I saw a little girl from Scotland walking down the lake front in Chicago. Is it dreff'le rude, Aunt Ailie?”
“So they say, so they say,” said her aunt, looking straight forward, with her shoulders back and her eyes level, flushing at the temples. “But I'm afraid we can't help it. It's undignified—to be seen doing it. I can see you're a real Dyce, Bud. The other people who are not Dyces lose a great deal of fun. They must be very much bored with each other. Do you know, child, I think you and I are going to be great friends—you and I and Aunt Bell and Uncle Dan.”
“And the Mosaic dog,” added Bud with warmth. “I love that old dog so much that I could—I could eat him. He's the becomingest dog! Why, here he is!” And it was indeed Footles who hurled himself at them, a rapturous mass of unkempt hair and convulsive barkings, having escaped from the imprisonment of Kate's kitchen by climbing over her shoulders and out across the window-sash.
CHAPTER VI
I HEARD all about you and Auntie Bell and Uncle Dan from pop—from father,” said Bud, as they walked back to the house. She had learned already from example how sweeter sounded “father” than the term she had used in America. “He was mighty apt to sit up nights talking about you all. But I don't quite place Kate: he never mentioned Kate.”
“Oh, she's a new addition,” explained Ailie. “Kate is the maid, you know: she came to us long after your father left home, but she's been with us five years now, and that's long enough to make her one of the family.”