so really nice and kind for you that you feel as
if you were compelled to love them dutifully instead.
So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima--the cat's name
was Fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the latter's decease,
we were well punished for it later on.
One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out to Spencervale.
She really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray pony, but somehow
Aunt Cynthia always gave you the impression of a full rigged ship
coming gallantly on before a favorable wind.
That was a Jonah day for us all through. Everything had gone wrong.
Ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit of the new
blouse I was making was hopelessly askew, and the kitchen stove
smoked and the bread was sour. Moreover, Huldah Jane Keyson, our
tried and trusty old family nurse and cook and general "boss," had what
she called the "realagy" in her shoulder; and, though Huldah Jane is as
good an old creature as ever lived, when she has the "realagy" other
people who are in the house want to get out of it and, if they can't, feel
about as comfortable as St. Lawrence on his gridiron.
And on top of this came Aunt Cynthia's call and request.
"Dear me," said Aunt Cynthia, sniffing, "don't I smell smoke? You girls
must manage your range very badly. Mine never smokes. But it is no
more than one might expect when two girls try to keep house without a
man about the place."
"We get along very well without a man about the place," I said loftily.
Max hadn't been in for four whole days and, though nobody wanted to
see him particularly, I couldn't help wondering why. "Men are
nuisances."
"I dare say you would like to pretend you think so," said Aunt Cynthia,
aggravatingly. "But no woman ever does really think so, you know. I
imagine that pretty Anne Shirley, who is visiting Ella Kimball, doesn't.
I saw her and Dr. Irving out walking this afternoon, looking very well
satisfied with themselves. If you dilly-dally much longer, Sue, you will
let Max slip through your fingers yet."
That was a tactful thing to say to ME, who had refused Max Irving so
often that I had lost count. I was furious, and so I smiled most sweetly
on my maddening aunt.
"Dear Aunt, how amusing of you," I said, smoothly. "You talk as if I
wanted Max."
"So you do," said Aunt Cynthia.
"If so, why should I have refused him time and again?" I asked,
smilingly. Right well Aunt Cynthia knew I had. Max always told her.
"Goodness alone knows why," said Aunt Cynthia, "but you may do it
once too often and find yourself taken at your word. There is something
very fascinating about this Anne Shirley."
"Indeed there is," I assented. "She has the loveliest eyes I ever saw. She
would be just the wife for Max, and I hope he will marry her."
"Humph," said Aunt Cynthia. "Well, I won't entice you into telling any
more fibs. And I didn't drive out here to-day in all this wind to talk
sense into you concerning Max. I'm going to Halifax for two months
and I want you to take charge of Fatima for me, while I am away."
"Fatima!" I exclaimed.
"Yes. I don't dare to trust her with the servants. Mind you always warm
her milk before you give it to her, and don't on any account let her run
out of doors."
I looked at Ismay and Ismay looked at me. We knew we were in for it.
To refuse would mortally offend Aunt Cynthia. Besides, if I betrayed
any unwillingness, Aunt Cynthia would be sure to put it down to
grumpiness over what she had said about Max, and rub it in for years.
But I ventured to ask, "What if anything happens to her while you are
away?"
"It is to prevent that, I'm leaving her with you," said Aunt Cynthia.
"You simply must not let anything happen to her. It will do you good to
have a little responsibility. And you will have a chance to find out what
an adorable creature Fatima really is. Well, that is all settled. I'll send
Fatima out to-morrow."
"You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself," said Ismay,
when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia. "I won't touch her with a
yard-stick. You had no business to say we'd take her."
"Did I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly. "Aunt Cynthia
took our consent for granted. And you know, as well as I do, we
couldn't have refused. So what is the use of being grouchy?"
"If anything happens
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