“Twenty-two, but you wouldn’t think it. She seems a good bit younger; she’s been made a baby of, you see. They are anxious to have a companion for her to keep her amused, and take care of her in her walks and drives and all that kind of thing. My girls go up as often as they can; but that isn’t the same thing as being always in the house. Directly we heard about your loss, and that you would have to leave your present home, we all said that it would be a fine thing for Effie to have a cousin to be a sister and playfellow.”
“Perhaps she won’t like it so much herself,” said Sheila, with a little upward glance through her long eye-lashes. “People don’t always like a new sister thrust down their throats. I’m not sure that I should have liked it myself; though papa used sometimes to say that he wished I had one.”
“Effie is a bit spoiled, I won’t deny that,” answered Uncle Tom in his straightforward fashion. “What could you expect after such a family history? She is not always the easiest person to please or amuse; but you will be patient with her, I daresay, my dear, and try to do her good.”
Sheila was just a little taken aback. She had always been the petted darling at home. It seemed rather a turning of the tables to expect her to study the caprices and whims of another spoilt child. Sheila knew that people called her that sometimes. There had been moments in her life when it had come over her with a certain sense of uneasiness that it might be true. But it was very pleasant, and she had a sunny, happy temperament. She was seldom vexed or angry even if things did not go quite right, and she had heard people say of her that she was “unspoilt in spite of spoiling,” so she had got into the way of thinking that it had not hurt her to be an only daughter, ruling the house beneath the mild sway of an indulgent father.
But that was a very different thing from being expected to play the part of companion and sister to a cousin in uncertain health, who appeared to have had everything her own way all her life.
“What is the matter with Effie, Uncle Tom?”
“Well, my dear, I am not quite sure what it is. Sometimes I think she might be less ailing if there were less fuss about her symptoms. She was a lively little puss enough till about two years ago, and then she began with asthma, and got thin, and had a cough, and ever since then there has been a regular panic about her—doctors by the dozen, and new prescriptions every month. It’s enough to make any girl fanciful; but the poor child does have bad bouts sometimes—there’s no mistaking that. We strong folks must not be too hard on the ailing ones. Perhaps we should have our fads and fancies too if we were in their shoes. When I heard about what would have to happen here, I said to my brother, ‘The best thing in the world for Effie will be to have her cousin to be a sister and companion for her.’”
“And what did Effie say to it?” asked Sheila.
“Well, I never asked. Effie is a bit what nurses call contrary. She doesn’t always take kindly to what is settled for her; but she has a good heart at bottom. You will get on with her all right enough. Raby and Ray always say that her bark is worse than her bite.”
“Who are Raby and Ray?” asked Sheila, who felt the subject of Effie to be a little discouraging.