“A tragedy! you don’t read none of them wicked things!” severely.
“Why, yes, auntie, when they come in the course of my study. It’s in Greek!”
“Greek! and you’re a gal! Your father allers was cracked about it, but this beats all!”
Marion failed to see it in just that light, but she said pleasantly, “I’ll put it away if it troubles you.”
A long arm pointed up-stairs, and Marion followed its direction.
When she came down, it seemed to Aunt Betty, in spite of her displeasure, that the rays of sunlight that were glimmering so faintly at the head of the 147 stairs came down with her and lighted up the dingy old kitchen.
“Now give me something to do,” said Marion dancing up to her with one of the prettiest steps she had learned at the academy. “It’s Thanksgiving, you know, to-morrow, and we have such lots and lots to do at home; there’s pies and puddings and cakes and a big turkey to prepare, and a chicken pie, and nuts to crack, and apples to rub until you can see your face in them.”
Aunt Betty’s mouth and eyes opened as wide as they could for the wrinkles that held them while Marion told of the festival dinner, then she looked down at Marion’s feet, and, not satisfied with the glimpse she caught of a pair of little boots, she lifted Marion’s dress, then asked,—
“Be you lame?”
At first Marion was puzzled, then she remembered how she had danced into the room, so, with a merry peal of laughter, instead of answering, off she went into a series of pirouettes that might have astonished more accustomed eyes than those of her old Aunt Betty.