Miriam Monfort | Page 8

then, Evelyn Erle?" asked Mrs. Austin,
earnestly, laying her hand on her arm, and shaking her slightly as she
was about to leave the room. "Come back and answer me. I hope
Miriam is only angry--I hope you did not do this thing."
"I will not be forcibly detained by any old woman in America," said

Evelyn, struggling stoutly, "nor questioned either about a pack of fibs.
Miriam knows better than to tell such stories--or ought to be taught
better."
"It was no story," I said, solemnly. "It was true. You did burn my finger,
and begged me not to tell Constance or papa afterward, and I never told
them, because I never break my word if I can help it, and I wouldn't
have told Mrs. Austin (but I didn't promise about her, you know), only
you twitted me so meanly, and made me so mad--and it all came out.
For I can keep a secret! I know where that squirrel is now, Evelyn Erle,
but I will never tell any one--never--not even Constance Glen. I
promised myself that, and crossed my heart about it when you tried to
cut off its tail--its pretty, bushy tail that God gave it to keep the flies off
with."
Mrs. Austin was shedding tears by this time; Evelyn's insolence and
duplicity had stung her to the quick, and she saw, with real concern,
that I had justice on my side. She had relinquished her hold on Evelyn,
who stood now sullenly glaring at me, pale as a sheet, her eyes white
with rage, looking like heated steel, her lips trembling with passion.
"You shall tell me where that squirrel is, or I will appeal to papa," she
said, sharply. "It was mine. Norman Stanbury said so when he brought
it here and gave it to me. You heard him, little cheat!"
"He told me to feed it, and take care of it, and not let it get hurt, if he
did give it to you," I replied, doggedly, "and I did what he told me. You
are a born tyrant, Evelyn. Constance told you so a month ago, when
you twisted Laura Stanbury's arm for not teaching you that puzzle; and
there is a wicked word I know that suits you to-day, only I am afraid to
say it--Constance would be angry--but it begins with an L and ends
with an R, and has only four letters in it. There, now!"
I well deserved the slap, no doubt, that rang down with such lightning
speed and force on my cheek, and, fortunately, Mrs. Austin arrested my
panther-like spring toward Evelyn, or the nails I held in rest might have
brought blood from her waxen face, and marred its symmetry for a
season. As it was, I screamed wildly, until Miss Glen came in, attracted

by my cries, and, receiving no satisfactory explanation as to their cause,
led me to her own apartment to compose, question, and rebuke me in
that firm but gentle manner that ever calmed my spirit like oil poured
upon troubled waters. The end of the matter was that, when I met
Evelyn again, I went up to her in a spirit of conciliation, and mutely
kissed her as a sign of peace and penitence.
It was a matter of indifference to me that this advance was carelessly
received, since it satisfied my conscience and her who stirred its
depths--nor did my cheek flush at the derisive taunt that followed me
from the room after this obligation to self was discharged--"Now tattle
again, little prophetess," for thus she often alluded to my Hebrew name
and its signification, "and produce my squirrel, or look well to your
wounded mole!"
This threat was not without its effect. In a deep, leafy covert I
concealed my poor dying patient, "earthy, and of the earth"--literally, in
every sense--but the squirrel still enjoyed its sequestered home on the
topmost branch of an English walnut-tree, from which it cheerfully, but
cautiously, descended at my call when I went out to carry it almonds or
filberts from the dessert (invariably served with wine to my father, who,
in observance of his English custom, sat alone some moments after the
ladies of his household had withdrawn from table), nor did Evelyn have
the despotic pleasure of abbreviating his right of tail.
CHAPTER II.
My father's marriage was solemnized very quietly in that old gray
church with its fairy chime of bells, all alive on that occasion, which
stood in the busy street not far from our quiet house. An aged and
reverend bishop, who had administered the sacred communion to
Washington and his wife when the city we dwelt in had been the
temporary residence of that chief, performed the ceremony, which, with
the exception of my father's immediate