"Oh, I've been reading about the Knights of the Round Table, and what lovely times they all had; and I'm tired to death of being just a girl in a Connecticut farm-house, where nothing ever happens."
"Doesn't it, then? I should rather think it had lately."
"Yes, if you mean horrid, uncomfortable things, like mother and father going to Boston for a week, and you taking the chance to lame yourself for life, and Hester's mother capping the climax by sending for her in hot haste. I don't mean stupid, commonplace things; I mean adventures—grand, beautiful deeds of heroism. How I should love to be a heroine! I wish I were Florence Nightingale in the hospital, when the sick soldier kissed her shadow on the wall; I wish I were Joan of Arc, or Grace Darling, or somebody; not just Amabel Holroyd. Holroyd! how can any one with such a name be romantic? I could be a heroine; I feel I've got it in me. You needn't laugh, Tom."
The door opened quietly, and Meg came in, her bright face a little overcast.
"People never are appreciated by their own families," wound up Amabel, with some heat.
"They know too much about 'em!" said Tom, sententiously. "Hullo, Meggums! what's the row?"
"Bad news," said Meg, trying to smile. "Anastasia Ann's gone!"
"What?" in a duet of dismay.
"Yes, indeed. She said she couldn't stop where it was so lonesome; and though I protested Hester would be back early to-morrow morning, she packed up her things then and there, and went off by the stage when it passed just now. So now we're alone, and no mistake."
"Because you must needs let Seth Binks go to drive Hester, and there isn't a soul within two miles but old Granny Peters! Never mind. I hope robbers will come; I'll defend the house: I should just enjoy it."