"But she'll have to come, sister," said Miss Dorinda; "how will you prevent her?" "Well, then, she cannot stay," said Miss Priscilla, with another snap; "I will send her back just as I did Ann Haskell. Why, think of it, Dorinda! Think of a child living in this house! She'd very likely leave doors open, and she'd be sure to chatter when we wished to be quiet, and she'd fairly worry us into our graves." "Yes," said Miss Dorinda, "I suppose she would. But I don't see how you _can_ send her away." "I don't care whether I can or not, I'm going to do it. This Lawrence J. Bond, or whoever he is, discovered her without our consent; now he can attend to the rest; I shall simply get her a ticket back to his address in London and pack her off." "Of course that is the only thing to do--we _can't_ have her here. And yet--Priscilla--she is Lavinia's daughter." "What of it? Lavinia didn't consider our feelings when she deserted and disgraced us, so why should we concern ourselves about her child?" "True enough; and yet I shall be glad to see the little girl. How old is she, Priscilla?" "I suppose she must be about fourteen. Yes; it was fourteen years ago that Jack Lovell wrote, saying his wife had died, leaving a tiny baby. He said the little one had blue eyes and golden curls, so I daresay she has grown up to look like her mother. Lavinia _was_ pretty." "Oh, she was. And how sweet she used to look dancing round the house in her bright, pretty frocks." "Well, what if she did? Lavinia's daughter is not Lavinia, and I wash my hands of the little nuisance. If you choose to--" "Oh, no, no! I wouldn't do anything that you would disapprove of. But I only thought--perhaps--if she is a sweet, docile child she might be a comfort to us." "Are you losing your mind, Dorinda? What comfort could come of a responsibility like that? Think of the worrying over her clothes and education and accomplishments. And then, after a while, probably she would treat us as her mother did, and run away with a good-for-nothing scamp." "Yes, yes, sister, you are quite right. What is the child's name, do you know?" "Lavinia; don't you remember her father said so in that letter--the only letter he ever wrote us? If he had acted more kindly toward us, I might feel different toward the child; but as it is, I've no use for her." "Do you remember sister Lavinia at fourteen? She was a lovely child, chubby and rosy-cheeked, with eyes like the sky, and beautiful, soft golden curls. She didn't look much like us, Priscilla." "No," admitted the older sister; "but beauty is a doubtful good. I'd rather be plain and do my duty, than to be handsome and break the hearts of those who love me." "Well," said Miss Dorinda, placidly, "we'd better not talk any more about it, or we'll get so excited we won't be able to sleep. Let's go to bed, sister, and to-morrow morning, after breakfast, we'll read the letter again and decide what we can do."