“No,” said Kristy; “I suppose your mother taught you.”
“She did not. I was taught by my grandmother, my father’s mother, one winter that I spent with her, when my mother was ill.”
“Wasn’t your grandmother very queer?” asked Kristy. “Did she look like that picture in your room?”
“Yes; that’s a good likeness, but she wasn’t exactly queer. She was a very fine woman, but she had decided notions about the way girls should be brought up, and she thought my mother was too easy. So when she had the whole care of me, she set herself to give me some good, wholesome training.”
“Poor little mamma!” said Kristy. “What did she do? It seems so funny to think of you as a little girl being trained!”
“Well, it was not at all funny, I assure you. I thought I was terribly abused, and I used to make plans to run away some night and go home. But every night I was so sleepy that I put it off till another night; and indeed I had a bit of common sense left, and realized that I had no money and did not know the way home, and couldn’t walk so far anyway; though I did run away once”—
“Oh, tell me about that”—cried Kristy, laughing; “you run away! how funny! tell me!”
“I’ll tell you the story of my naughty runaway, but first I must tell you about my grandmother and why I wanted to run away.”