Mary Minds Her Business | Page 7

shine like a star. And that night, when Mary lay in her bed, the
moon looked through the window and saw that little star twinkling
there, and the moon said 'Little star! Little star! What are you doing
there in Mary's bed? You come up here in the sky and twinkle where
you belong!' And all night long, Mary's little nose tried to get up to the
moon, and that's why it turns up at the end--" And then in one grand
finale of cannibalistic transport, Miss Cordelia concluded, "Oh, I could
eat her up!"
But it was Miss Patty's turn then, because although Cordelia bathed the
child, it was the younger sister's part to dress her. So Miss Patty put her
arms out with an authority which wouldn't take "No" for an answer, and
if you had been in the next room, you would then have heard--
"Oh, where have you been My pretty young thing--?"

Which is a rather active affair, especially where the singer shows how
she danced her a dance for the Dauphin of France. By that time you
won't be surprised when I tell you that Miss Patty's cheeks had a
downright glow on them--and I think her heart had something of the
same glow, too, because, seating herself at last to dress our crowing
heroine, she beamed over to her sister and said (though somewhat out
of breath) "Isn't it nice!"
This, of course, was all strictly private.
In public, Mary was brought up with maidenly deportment. You would
never dream, for instance, that she was ever tickled with a turkey
feather (which Miss Cordelia kept for the purpose) or that she had ever
been atomized all over with Lily of the Valley (which Miss Patty never
did again because Ma'm Maynard, the old French nurse, smelled it and
told the maids). But always deep down in the child was an indefinable
quality which puzzled her two aunts.
As Mary grew older, this quality became clearer.
"I know what it is," said Miss Cordelia one night. "She has a mind of
her own. Everything she sees or hears: she tries to reason it out."
I can't tell you why, but Miss Patty looked uneasy.
"Only this morning," continued Miss Cordelia, "I heard Ma'm Maynard
telling her that there wasn't a prettier syringa bush anywhere than the
one under her bedroom window. Mary turned to her with those eyes of
hers--you know the way she does--'Ma'm Maynard,' she said, 'have you
seen all the other s'inga bushes in the world?' And only yesterday I said
to her, 'Mary, you shouldn't try to whistle. It isn't nice.' She gave me
that look--you know--and said, 'Then let us learn to whistle, Aunt
T'delia, and help to make it nice.'"
"Imagine you and I saying things like that when we were girls," said
Miss Patty, still looking troubled.
"Yes, yes, I know. And yet... I sometimes think that if you and I had

been brought up a little differently...."
They were both quiet then for a time, each consulting her memories of
hopes long past.
"Just the same," said Miss Patty at last, "there are worse things in the
world than being old-fashioned."
In which I think you would have agreed with her, if you could have
seen Mary that same evening.
At the time of which I am now writing she was six years old--a rather
quiet, solemn child--though she had a smile upon occasions, which was
well worth going to see.
For some time back she had heard her aunts speaking of "Poor Josiah!"
She had always stood in awe of her father who seemed taller and
gaunter than ever. Mary seldom saw him, but she knew that every night
after dinner he went to his den and often stayed there (she had heard
her aunts say) until long after midnight.
"If he only had some cheerful company," she once heard Aunt Cordelia
remark.
"But that's the very thing he seems to shun since poor Martha died,"
sighed Miss Patty, and dropping her voice, never dreaming for a
moment that Mary was listening, she added with another sigh, "If there
had only been a boy, too!"
All these things Mary turned over in her mind, as few but children can,
especially when they have dreamy eyes and often go a long time
without saying anything. And on the same night when Aunt Patty had
come to the conclusion that there are worse things in the world than
being old-fashioned, Mary waited until she knew that dinner was over
and then, escaping Ma'm Maynard, she stole downstairs, her heart
skipping a beat now and then at the adventure before her. She passed
through the hall and the library like a determined little ghost and then,
gently turning the knob,