we are both as ugly as sin.”
“I don’t indeed, indeed I don’t!” cried the girl, stung by the charge into indignant remonstrance. “I think you are both the most beautiful girls I ever saw. Oh, Clotilde! you know what lovely eyes and hair you have.”
“I haven’t; my eyes are dark and my hair is long and coarse.”
“It’s beautiful!” cried Ruth, “isn’t it, Marie? Why, see how everyone turns to look at you both when you are out, in spite of your being so badly dressed.”
“Go back to the door. No, stop,” cried Clotilde, pushing the poor girl’s head to and fro as she retained her ear.
“Clotilde dear, you hurt me very much,” sobbed Ruth.
“I’m trying to hurt you,” said Clotilde, showing her white glistening teeth.
“Let her be, Clo.”
“Shan’t. Mind your own business.”
“Let her be, I say,” cried Marie, flashing into excitement. “If you don’t loose her I’ll scratch you.”
“You daren’t,” cried Clotilde, and as her sister’s face turned red her own grew pale. “Go back to the door and listen, little fibster.”
“I dare,” said Marie, relapsing into her half-dreamy way. “Come here, Ruthy; I won’t have you hurt. It’s truth, isn’t it? We are beautiful?”
“Yes,” said Ruth, starting to her feet, and joyfully nestling in the arms held out for her, while Marie kissed her with some show of affection. “Yes, you are both beautiful, and Clotilde knows I would not tell her a story.”
The gratified look had spread by this time to the elder sisters face, and she returned to her position upon the table, where she sat swinging one leg to and fro.
“Go back and listen, Ruthy,” said Marie quietly. “You are quite right, dear—we are both handsome; and so are you.”
“I?” laughed Ruth, with a merry, innocent look brightening her face; “oh no!”
“Yes, you are,” said Marie, smoothing her own dark hair. “You are very nice, and pretty, and sweet, and when I’m married and away from this wicked old poverty-stricken workhouse, you shall come and live with me.”
“Shall I, Marie?” cried the girl, with the eagerness of a child.
“Yes, dear; and you shall have a handsome husband of your own.”
Ruth laughed merrily.
“What should I do with a husband?”
“Hold your tongue, Rie, and don’t stuff the child’s head with such nonsense.”
“Child, indeed! why, she is only a year younger than I. Oh! it has been abominable; we have been treated like babies, and I feel sometimes now as if I were only a little girl. But only wait.”
“Yes,” cried Clotilde with a curious laugh, “only wait.”
“Someone coming,” whispered Ruth, leaping up from the floor where she had been listening, and the childlike obedience to the stern authority in which they had been trained resumed its sway.
Clotilde bounded to the piano, and began to practise a singing lesson, her rich contralto voice rising and falling as she ran up an arpeggio, trying to make it accord with five notes struck together out of tune; Marie darted to a chair, and snatched up a quill pen, inked her forefinger, and bent over a partly written exercise on composition—a letter addressed to a lady of title, to be written in the style of Steele; and Ruth snatched up a piece of needlework, and began to sew. Then the door opened, and Markes, the nurse, appeared.
“Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie to come to the dining-room directly.”
“What for, Markes?” cried Clotilde, pausing in the middle of a rich-toned run full of delicious melody.
“Come and see. There, I’ll tell you—may as well, I suppose. Dressmaker to measure you for some new frocks.”
“La—ra—ra—ra—ra—ra—ra—rah!” sang Clotilde in a powerful crescendo, as she swung round upon the music-stool and then leaped up, while Marie rose slowly, with a quiet, natural grace.
“Am—am I to come, too?” said Ruth.
“You? No. It’s them,” said Markes grimly. “Fine goings on, ’pon my word.”
“What are fine goings on, Markes?” cried Clotilde.
“Why, ordering new dresses. Better buy a new carpet for one of the bedrooms, and spend a little more money on the living. I’m getting sick of the pinching and griping ways.”
“I say, Markes, what’s for dinner to-day?” exclaimed Marie, on finding the woman in a more communicative mood than usual.
“Cold boiled mutton.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated Clotilde. “I hate cold mutton. Is there no pudding?”
“Yes; it’s pudding day.”
“That’s better. What pudding is it?”
Markes shook her head.
“Tell me, and I’ll give you a kiss,” said Clotilde.
“If your aunts was to hear you talk like that they’d have fits,” grumbled the woman. “It’s rice-pudding.”
“Baked?”
“No.”
“Boiled in milk?”
“No—plain boiled.”
“Sauce or jam with it?”
“Sauce or jam!” said the woman, in tones of disgust. “Neither on ’em, but sugar and a bit o’ butter; and think yourselves lucky to get that. New dresses, indeed! It’s shameful; and us in the kitchen half-starved!”
“Well, we can’t help it,” said Marie. “I’m sure we don’t live any too well.”
“No, you don’t,” said the woman, grinning. “But it does seem a shame to go spending money as they seem to mean to do on you two. I ’spose you’re going to be married, ain’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Clotilde. “Are we?”
“There, don’t ask me. I don’t know nothing at all about it, and I shan’t speak a word. I only know what I heard them say.”
“Do tell us, Marky dear, there’s a dear, good old nursey, and we’ll do just as you tell us,” said Clotilde, in a wheedling way.
“You both make haste down, or you’ll both have double lessons to get off, so I tell you.”
