"Like they do in books. Oh, Nell," Molly’s romantic soul lent enthusiasm to her tone, "you know they always do! However hard and grim and horrid she is, the niece, or whoever comes and stays with her, gradually twines herself round her heart—" "She must be an acrobat, then," put in Nell, sotto voce. "And alters her whole nature. You see, I’ll be awfully sweet and nice—I’ll do things for her. They always pick up her handkerchief and fetch her spectacles and put down her shoes to warm when she’s coming in with wet feet, and things like that. You needn’t laugh, Nell! It’s something to do—I’ll try awfully hard. I think," Molly’s pretty voice trembled, "I think mother would like it." Nell jumped up. "All right, only don’t go and put your great, noodlish heart into it, Mol! For she’s not the right material, old girl!" "I like her awfully grim and hard at first," enthusiastically. "It’s a pity I’m quite so frightened of her, though. I just can’t help it—she makes me shiver in my shoes!" "Nell," from a dim corner came Sheila Pat’s voice, and a squeak as she moved. "Where are you, Atom? Yes?" "Nell," in very judicial tones, "is it very rude to ask a person not to talk goody?" "Rather riling, I should say." Silence. "Shall we light up?" said Nell, lazily. "Nell, is it very rude to ask a person if he’s afraid?" "More than rude, Sheila Pat, downright insulting!" "Oh!" Pause. "But he wasn’t an _Irish_ person," ingenuously. "Was he English?" gravely. "Yes." "No one can say Englishmen are cowards, Sheila Pat. They don’t understand us, but they’re not cowards." "Is it rude to ask a person if he likes his Catchykism better than cricket?" "It’s unkind, Sheila Pat." Pause. "Is it more unkind if he—if he is lame, Nell?" "Miles worse. Downright mean." After a long pause: "May we have the lamp now? I wish to write a letter." "Who to?" inquired Molly. "To a ’quaintance." Nell rose from the hearth-rug. "Nell," the Atom pressed close and spoke in a loud whisper, "a person can’t be _very_ goody-goo if he calls you a beast and throws a piece of cake at your nose, can he?" "Good gracious!" "Hush!" the Atom seized her arm, almost trembling with terror of her dignity being in danger. "I didn’t say _my_ nose, Nell! Or _my_ beast!" incoherently. "Of course not. Where are the matches?" Sheila Pat took a long while over that letter. Her delicate little face downbent over the sheet of paper flushed and paled several times before it was done. Her heart and her dignity fought it out again and again. At last she evolved the following:— "DEAR MISTER STUART