* * * * *
“Well, Lyddy,” she began, settling weightily into Grace’s chair, “so you
lived to get back home, after all. I hope you’re as grateful to
Providence as you ought to be.”
Her tone made it evident that, though she might hope it, she certainly
didn’t expect it.
“You’ve gone off mightily in your looks,” she continued; “not that you
weren’t always sorter peaked an’ skinny-lookin’—‘slender,’ Letitia used
to call it! Do you think your mind’s gettin’ straight any?”
“It’s straight, what there is of it,” I said; “but I’m tired just now,
Cousin Jane; I can’t talk very well. You see Grace has been here——”
“Didn’t I see her?” she demanded indignantly. “That’s why I came. If you
can see a chatterer like her, I reckon you can see me. I told John Bird
I wanted to see you about Caroline.”
My tired eyes opened at once.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Caroline is gettin’ grown-up; she was nineteen last June. I’ve tried my
best to keep beaux and foolishness away from her, but everything in
town, looks like, was after her last summer; and the worst of it was,
Caroline liked it.”
The corners of my mouth took an upward curve.
“You wait till I get through, missy, an’ you’ll be laughin’ the other
side of your mouth. Caroline is hail-fellow-well-met with every boy in
this town except David Bird; and she knows perfectly well, for I told
her, that Chadwell and I and you and John Bird intend her to marry
David.”
The room swam round, and I closed my eyes. Speech was impossible.
“Good land, Lyddy! Don’t go to faintin’—I didn’t know you were such a
baby. You needn’t get so scared, child. Jane Grackle is pretty safe to
get her own way, and long as your way’s my way you’ll get yours, too.
She’ll marry him yet; young folks haven’t any sense; they need managin’,
and I——”
“For heaven’s sake don’t try to manage Caro,” I gasped. “And as for
telling her I intended her to marry David—go, before you say something
else that will make forgiveness impossible!”
Cousin Jane turned purple. I saw that as my eyes closed again. She rose
stiffly, with rustling skirts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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