"But how can we, with neither brother nor sister, call her that?" said Penelope the business-minded and literal. "Think of the stories we should have to make up; and if anybody asked questions we should have to make some more, and there would be discrepancies, and the most dreadful things might be said."
"And pray," cried Matilda the impetuous, "who will presume to ask questions when we look them in the eye and calmly state the--the fact that she is our brother's child, and he is dead? Some people are not very polite, but I never met any one who would dare to disbelieve a lady to her face; and if we give no particulars and change the subject at once, there will be no opportunity to ask questions, If we call it a niece there will be no more to say, and as soon as it is generally known it will interest nobody. They are all too full of their own affairs."
"But, Tilly, we never had a brother."
"But, Tookey dear, who knows that? Papa married in this country, and you were born here, but you know he was sent to Bermuda soon after, and we remained there till you and I were grown. Nobody in Montreal knows even that mamma was Canadian. Nobody asks anything about the connections of the military or commissariat. There they are. The Service is a voucher for their respectability. It is taken for granted that they are English with no relations in this country, so nobody troubles to inquire."
"But our mother's relations, Tilly, in Upper Canada; what are we to say to them?"
"We have been thirteen years in Canada without meeting them. Mamma had only a sister--Aunt Bunce--who died before we left Bermuda; if her family live in Upper Canada still, they cannot know much about us. It is so long since poor mamma died--before Aunt Bunce, even--so very long that I do not care to count the years; it makes me feel so old."
"Don't talk of being old, child! You have not aged one bit. Think of me! But why need we bother with telling fibs about the child? Fibs always end in bother; I have been taught that all my life."
"Do you want us to be laughed at? Are you willing to confess yourself an old maid--a Protestant grey nun--adopting babies left on your doorstep? I am not, if you are; though I suppose I am older to-day than I was five years ago," and she shook out her ringlets with a defiant toss. "Just let it become generally known that we keep an upper-class foundling asylum, and we shall soon get plenty of pupils! They will bring them from Vermont, I daresay, or up from Quebec."
"Tush! Tilly."
"It is true. Only how should we dispose of them after they were brought up? Other institutions train them for service; now I do not think we could do that, so what would become of them? And what will become of our own little pet if we let her be looked on as a stray, and different from other children? Think of the slights she will be exposed to; and the unkind remarks, especially as she is sure to be pretty. It would be cruelty to bring her up with ourselves, and yet deprive her of the chance of marrying. Think of her struggles as a lonely woman to support herself after we are gone. Our gentle nurture would prove a curse to her and not a blessing."