years old.”
“You are not! You are fourteen.”
“Yes, ’m. Fourteen.”
Ladybird began to treat her aunt as one would treat a harmless lunatic who must be humored, whatever she might say.
“And why have you black eyes and straight black hair? Your father wrote, when you were a baby, that you had blue eyes and golden curls.”
“Did he write that? Why, how I have changed, haven’t I? Did you ever know a baby to change as much as that before?”
“No, I never did. And I don’t say that I would have kept you here if you had had blue eyes and golden hair; but it might have influenced me if you had looked more like your mother, – and your father said you did. As it is, I cannot think of allowing you to stay here, and so when your trunks come this morning – and I suppose Mr. Marks will bring them pretty soon – I shall send them back, and you with them, to Boston. There my lawyer will meet you and start you back to London. Mr. Thomas J. Bond had no right to send you here uninvited, and he may burden some one else with you. I positively decline the honor.”
Ladybird had paid polite attention at first, but toward the end of her aunt’s speech her mind began to wander, and as Miss Priscilla finished the child said:
“Aunty, I can make poetry, can you?”
Now the one ambition of Priscilla Flint’s early life had been to become a poetess.
Her favorite day-dream was of a beautiful volume, bound in blue and gold, that should contain poems like those of Mrs. Hemans. But though she had written many, many verses, – and indeed, had a little hair-trunk in the attic packed quite full of them, – yet she had never been able to summon sufficient courage to offer them to any publisher; and lately she had begun to think she never would, for poetry had changed since Mrs. Hemans’s day, and she doubted if her efforts would stand the tests of modern editors or publishers.
But she said: “Yes, child, I have written poetry. It is a talent that runs in our family. Have you written any?”
“Oh, no, I don’t write it. I just say it. Like this, you know:
“I have a dear aunt named Priscilla,
Who lives in a beautiful villa;
She has lovely old cups,
But she can’t abide pups,
And she flavors her cake with vanilla.
“That’s the kind I make. Of course you have to use words that rhyme, whether the sense is very good or not. I made this one too:
“There once was a lady named Biddy,
Who cried because she was a widdy;
When her husband fell dead,
She thoughtfully said,
‘He didn’t live very long, did he?’
“Now tell me some of your poetry, aunty.”
“You wouldn’t appreciate mine, child, – you couldn’t understand it.”
“No, ’m; I s’pose not. But I’d love to hear it.”
“Tell her ‘The Sunset Star,’ sister,” said Miss Dorinda.
Miss Priscilla simpered a little; then, folding her hands, she recited:
“The sunset star is shining
Across the meadow green;
The woodbine vines are twining
The trellises between;
“And every pleasant evening
I watch it from afar,
Romantic fancies weaving
About that evening star.”
“Why, aunty, that’s lovely,” exclaimed Ladybird: “and I do understand it. I know the sunset star that comes out in the sky just as the sun goes down. Yours is more poetry than mine, but mine are funnier. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, child; but as you grow older you’ll see that poetry is more important than fun.”
“Yes; and then I’ll learn to make verses like yours. Can you make poetry too, Aunt Dorinda?”
“No,” said Miss Dorinda, simply; “my talent is for painting.”
“Oh, is it? And do you paint pictures? And will you teach me how? I’ve always wanted to learn to paint, and I’m very industrious. I can play on the piano like a house afire.”
“Sister Lavinia used to play the piano very prettily,” said Miss Dorinda; “doubtless you have inherited her talent.”
“Yes, I think I have. Shall I play for you now?”
“No!” said Miss Priscilla, decidedly; “the piano has never been touched since your mother left us, and it never shall be opened again with my consent.”
“Aunty, did my mamma look like you? It seems funny, doesn’t it? but I’ve never seen a picture of my mamma, and papa never told me anything about her. I didn’t know papa very well, either, – he was always going off on long journeys, and I stayed with nurse. What was my mamma like, aunty?”
“She was a beautiful blonde, with rosy, plump cheeks. You are not a bit like her.”
“No, I should say not,” – and Ladybird laughed merrily, – “with my straight black hair and thin white face. Papa used to call me a black-and-white ghost. But after I live here awhile, I expect I’ll get plump and rosy; though I don’t suppose anything will ever make my hair curl.”
“But you’re not going to live here; you’re going away this morning.”
“Now, Aunt Priscilla,” said Ladybird, with an air of being kind but firm, “this joke has gone far enough. I’m going to stay here because it’s my home, and I have no other. I belong to you and Aunt Dorinda, because I have no other relatives. I hope you’ll learn to like me; but if not, I have to stay here, all the same. People have to live where their homes are, and so we’ll consider the matter settled.”
“Indeed, miss, we’ll consider no such thing! What do you mean by defying me in my own house? I say you are to go, and go you shall. Here comes Mr. Marks up the road now, in his wagon. Get that worthless dog of yours, and prepare to go at once.”
Miss Priscilla looked at the little girl with flashing eyes, and Ladybird, who had risen from her stool, looked back at her aunt, smiling and unalarmed.
Then the child gave a quick glance round the room. The windows were high from the ground, and there was but one door, which led to the hall.
Like a flash, Ladybird flew out through the door, shut it behind her, and turned the key in the lock, making the Misses Flint her prisoners.
She went out on the front veranda just as Mr. Marks drove up with her trunks in his wagon.
“Good morning!” she said brightly. “Will you please set the boxes out on the porch? Oh, here is Matthew; he will help you. Now, if you please, will you carry them up-stairs? I’ll show you where to put them.”
She
