To say that as her mind and person developed, she quite outgrew the faults of her childhood, would be rather hazardous. 'T is true, she no longer stamped her little foot and burst into passionate tears, as when we first made her acquaintance, but she bent her pretty dark brows, and said, "I must," in a tone that Mrs. Grey knew meant, "I will."
But then who thought of disputing her wishes? Were they not the main-spring of the whole concern? What else did father or mother live for? Were not her wishes their wishes, her pleasures their pleasures? Was not she their idol—their all?
If she would only wrap up warmer, and put thicker shoes on those little feet, Mrs. Grey would have asked nothing more. But she was slight, and coughed sometimes, and then Mr. Grey said she should not have allowed Pauline to go out in those thin shoes, and charged her not to permit it another time—but never interfered himself—thus throwing all the responsibility, or rather impossibility, of making Pauline mind, upon his wife, who indeed always got all Pauline's scoldings; for though Mr. Grey might find fault when Pauline was absent, one bright smile and brilliant glance from Pauline present, was sure to dispel his displeasure.
So Pauline had now reached her seventeenth year, beautiful, gifted, high-spirited and generous-hearted. And if willful—why, even that seemed to give a prononcé shade to her character, that rather heightened the brilliancy of its tone.
"You are going to Cecelia Howard's wedding I suppose, Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Graham.
"Of course. She is a niece of my husband's, you know."
"Yes. And Pauline is to be bridemaid, I understand," continued the lady.
"Well—I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Grey, hesitatingly.
"But I do," said Pauline in her pretty willful way. "I told Cecelia that she might depend on me."
Mrs. Grey looked at her daughter without speaking, though she could not but smile at her animated face, while Mrs. Graham said, "Oh yes, why not, Mrs. Grey?"