  The next morning Ladybird woke early, with a strange feeling of suffocation. The day was warm, and the dimity curtains, the feather bed, and the night-cap all combined to stifle a little girl who was fond of fresh air. She hopped out of bed and ran to the window, the extra length of Martha’s long night-dress tripping her feet and flapping against her hands. Throwing open the blinds, she saw that the window opened on a veranda roof, and swinging herself over the sill, she stood delightedly gazing at the spring beauty of Primrose Farm. She was soon joined by Cloppy, who had scrambled out of the feather nest and followed in his young mistress’s steps. “Hello, Cloppy-Dog,” she cried as she picked him up, “how do you like our new home? I think it is lovely. Let’s look in at these windows.” There were several along the veranda, each with closed blinds. Ladybird tried them all, but could not open any until she reached the last one. There the blinds flew open at her touch and disclosed an open window with a pair of the ever-recurring dimity curtains tied back with blue ribbons. Ladybird perched herself on the window-sill and surveyed the room. Opposite the window was a curtained bed like the one she had slept in, and as she looked, a night-capped face appeared at the opening and stared at the intruder. Except that the face between the window-curtains was young, and the face between the bed-curtains was old, it was almost like a reflection in a mirror. Ladybird smiled most engagingly and chanted: “Good morning, Aunt Dorinda; I’m sitting in your window.” And then, with the little dog still in her arms, she jumped down into the room. “I’ll just hop in beside you for a minute,” said she, approaching the bed, “’cause my feet are cold—though it’s a lovely warm morning. What time do you have breakfast?” As she spoke she snuggled herself, dog and all, into her aunt’s bed, and softly patted the old lady’s cheek. Miss Dorinda knew she ought to be stern, but it was impossible, with the little childish face framed in its big cap-ruffle looking up into her own, and she said: “About eight o’clock, dearie; are you hungry?” “Yes, ’m; I’m ’most starved. The train was late last night, and I didn’t get any supper.” “Why, you poor child! There, that’s the rising-bell. Run right back to your room and dress; the breakfast-bell will ring in just thirty minutes. Can you be ready?” “In thirty minutes? I should hope so!” said Ladybird, laughing. Gathering up her dog, she stepped through the window and ran along the veranda roof to her own room. Peeping in, she saw Martha staring in dismay at the empty bed. “Hello, Martha,” she cried gaily, “did you think I was lost? I’ve been calling on my aunt; it’s such a lovely morning for visiting, you know. But I’m as hungry as a bear, and now I think I’ll get dressed and go to breakfast.” She jumped into the room, and with Martha’s assistance her toilette was soon made; then she seized her dog and went dancing down-stairs. After wandering through several of the large rooms she came to the dining-room, where the breakfast-table was laid; seeing nothing to eat, she went on to the kitchen. Bridget looked at her with no kindly eye, for she resented any intrusion on the quiet of Primrose Hall as much as Miss Priscilla did. But when Ladybird said wistfully, “I’m very hungry,” the good-hearted old cook fell a victim at once to the irresistible charm of the strange child. “Are ye that, miss? And what would ye like now?” “Oh, anything!—I don’t care what; and if I go and sit at the table will you bring me something?” “I will indeed, miss. Run along, thin, and set at the place forninst the side-board.” And so that’s how it happened that when, a few minutes later, Miss Priscilla and Miss Dorinda came into the dining-room they found their guest ensconced at their table and apparently enjoying herself very much. “Good morning, aunties,” she said smilingly. “I ought to have waited for you, I know, but truly, I was so hungry I just couldn’t. And Bridget brought me such lovely things! I never had strawberries and cream before. Do you always use these beautiful blue-and-white dishes? For if you don’t, you needn’t get them out just because I’ve come.” “We always use them,” said Miss Priscilla; “we have used them for forty years, and not a piece has ever been broken.” “Is that so?” said Ladybird, with great interest, quite unconscious that the remark was intended for a warning to herself, as her quick motions and unexpected gestures seemed to threaten the safety of anything in her vicinity. Having finished her strawberries, she sat back, and throwing her little thin arms above her head, grasped the carved knobs of the high, old-fashioned chair. “Why, you’re just like me, aunty,” she said; “I think that’s the right way to do—to use your best things every day. It’s such a comfort to see them around; and you needn’t break china or glass just because you use it. Why, I’ll show you what can be done with them, and there’s not the slightest danger if you’re careful.” As the child spoke, she pushed away her plate, and ranged her cup, saucer, and glass in a row in front of her, and seized a spoon in one hand and a fork in the other. Then in a sweet, crooning voice she began to sing: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?” striking her glass lightly with her spoon at the accented notes, and beating an accompaniment alternately on her cup and saucer. Miss Priscilla’s eyes grew almost as big as her precious and endangered saucers, but the dear old tune, sung in the pretty, childish voice, with its tinkling accompaniment, held her spellbound, and she said not a word. As Ladybird finished the refrain she said eagerly: “Now we’ll do it again, and you both tap your glasses and sing with me.” And would you believe it? Those two old ladies were so interested that they tapped on their glasses with their thin old silver spoons, and sang with their thin old voices for all they were worth. “That was very pretty,” observed Ladybird, approvingly, when at last they all laid down their spoons. “And now if you’ve finished your breakfast, Aunt Priscilla, will you take me out and show me round the garden?” But Miss Priscilla Flint had by no means lost her mind entirely, and she said: “You have no time to go round the garden,—you are to start back to Boston this morning, and from there to London as soon as possible.” “Oh, am I?” said Ladybird, with a wise smile, and an air as of one humoring a wayward child. “You are indeed,” said her aunt, severely; “and now, if you will come into the morning-room with us, we will ask you a few questions before you go.” “All right, come on,” said Ladybird; and she grasped Miss Priscilla’s hand in both her own, and danced along at the old lady’s side. “‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot?’” “‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot?’” Miss Dorinda followed, and she and her sister took their accustomed seats in the bay-window. Then Ladybird placed a low ottoman at Miss Priscilla’s side and sat down upon it, and laid her head against her aunt’s knee. Although Miss Dorinda might seem to a casual observer to be a softer, kinder nature than her elder sister, yet for some unaccountable reason Ladybird felt more attracted toward Miss Priscilla; and, too, the child could already see that Miss Priscilla’s word was law at Primrose Hall, and that Miss Dorinda merely acquiesced in her sister’s decisions. But it was no spirit of diplomacy that actuated Ladybird, and she caressed Miss Priscilla’s hand for the simple reason that she was beginning to love the stern old lady. “Now,” said Miss Priscilla, glaring at her niece, “will you tell me what your name is?” “Ladybird Lovell,” said the little girl, with a bewitching smile. “I mean your real name, not that absurd nickname.” “It is my real name. I never had any other.” “Nonsense! Your real name is Lavinia Lovell.” “It is? All right—Lavinia Lovell, then. I don’t mind.” “And how old are you?” “Twelve 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 ran up the broad staircase; the men followed; and finally her three trunks were safely lodged in the room she had occupied the night before, and which she looked upon as her own. “How much is it, Mr. Marks?” she said; and when he told she paid him from her little purse, and bade him good morning. She watched until he was well out of sight, and then she went to unlock the door of the morning-room. |
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