"You've done more than one person out of a thousand would have done!" and Cynthia threw down the sheet, crossed the room, and put both arms around the old woman's neck. "Aunt Stina Chase could have taken us. She was rich even then, and could have borne the burden of our support better than you. But she didn't even consider it, and she never did anything for us until she took Ida. And you know it was only because Ida was so pretty that she wanted her. Now that she is going to Europe, she sends Ida back without even consulting you about it."
"Well, dearie, we're glad enough to take her back, I'm sure. She'll be company for us both these long summer days. And we oughtn't to expect Aunt Stina to take her to Europe. I guess it's pretty expensive livin' in those foreign places."
"I only hope Ida didn't want to go," rejoined Cynthia, returning to her seat by the window. "She'll find it very dull here, anyhow, I'm afraid, after the gay times she's had in the city."
"Yes, poor child," said Aunt Patty, "and we mustn't feel put out if she seems down-hearted just at first. I guess I'd better set about gettin' supper, Cynthy; it's strikin' five."
"Very well; and I'll set the table," said Cynthia, beginning to fold the sheet, "I'm going to put a big vase of flowers in the middle, and I'll give Ida one of the best damask napkins, if you don't mind?"
"Do just as you like, child," said Aunt Patty.
They went into the big pleasant kitchen together. The setting sun filled it with a golden glory; on the braided rug by the stove lay a big Maltese cat, in the south window was a wire stand of plants, and in one corner a tall eight-day clock with a moon on its face. Everything was scrupulously clean and in perfect order. The floor was as white as soap and sand could make it; the pans on the big dresser reflected everything about them, and the stove shone with its coat of polish.
Cynthia sang as she moved about putting the dishes on the table. She was of a happy contented disposition, and never grumbled at anything. She loved her home, plain as it was; she didn't mind hard work, and her simple pleasures satisfied her, though she had often longed for a peep into the great busy world outside Brookville. She had sometimes envied Ida, though she had never allowed Aunt Patty to suspect it, and had wished that she might have shared with her sister the many advantages afforded by city schools and teachers.
Aunt Stina Chase was her father's only sister, and had never known what it was to be poor. She had married a rich man at a very early age, and had been left a widow within a few years. She took her luxurious home, her many servants, her carriage, and her diamonds as a matter of course. But her easy, untroubled life had made her selfish, and when her brother and his wife died within a few months of each other, leaving two little girls to the mercy of the world, she had not thought it incumbent on her to take the children. She had left that to Aunt Patty, who was only a half-sister of the dead mother. But when, years after this, she heard from an acquaintance that Ida, the elder of the two little girls, was exceedingly pretty and attractive, a whim seized her to send for the child.
Aunt Patty had thought it her duty to let Ida go, for Mrs. Chase promised to have the girl instructed in music and the languages, and there was no opportunity at the Brookville school for anything except the plainest sort of an education.