Part 19 (1/2)

”See their reflection, you mean, I suppose.”

Beth looked puzzled. ”When you think of things, isn't that reflection?” she asked.

”Yes; and when you see yourself in the looking-gla.s.s, that's your reflection too,” Aunt Grace Mary answered.

”Oh, then I suppose it was the sea's thought of the sky I saw in the water--that makes it nicer than I had it before,” Beth said, trying to turn the phrase as a young bird practises to round its notes in the spring. ”The sea shows its thoughts, the thought of the sea is the sky--no, that isn't right. It never does come right all at once, you know. But that's the kind of thing.”

”What kind of thing?” Aunt Grace Mary asked, bewildered.

”The kind of thing I am always wanting to write down. You generally forget what we're talking about, don't you?--I say, don't you want to drive your own ponies yourself sometimes?”

”No, not when your dear uncle wants them.”

”Dear uncle wants them almost always, doesn't he? Horner ses as 'ow----”

”Beth, don't speak like that!”

”That's Horner, not me,” Beth snapped, impatient of the interruption.

”How am I to tell you what he said if I don't say what he said? Horner ses as 'ow, when Lady Benyon gev them there white ponies to 'er darter fur 'er own use, squire 'e sells two on 'is 'orses, an' 'as used them ponies ever since. Squire's a near un, my word!” Beth perceived that Aunt Grace Mary looked very funny in the face. ”You're frightened to death of Uncle James, arn't you?” she asked, after sucking her pencil meditatively for a little.

”No, dear, of course not. I am not afraid of any one but the dear Lord.”

”But Uncle James _is_ the lord.”

”Nonsense, child.”

”Mildred says so. She says he's lord of the manor. Mildred says it's fine to be lord of the manor. But it doesn't make me care a b.u.t.ton about Uncle James.”

”Don't speak like that, Beth. It's disrespectful. It was the Lord in heaven I alluded to,” said Aunt Grace Mary in her breathless way.

”Ah, that _is_ different,” Beth allowed. ”But I'm not afraid of Him either. I don't think I'm afraid of any one really, not even of mamma, though she does beat me. I'd rather she didn't, you know. But one gets used to it. The worst of it is,” Beth added, after sucking the point of her pencil a little--”The worst of it is, you never know what will make her waxy. To-day, at luncheon, you know--now, what did I say?”

”Oh,” said Aunt Grace Mary vaguely; ”you oughtn't to have said it, you know.”

”Now, that's just like mamma! She says 'Don't!' and 'How dare you!'

and 'Naughty girl!' at the top of her voice, and half the time I don't know what she's talking about. When I grow up, I shall explain to children. Do you know, sometimes I quite want to be good”--this with a sigh. ”But when I'm bad without having a notion what I've done, why, it's difficult. Aunt Grace Mary, do you know what Neptune would say if the sea dried up?” Aunt Grace Mary smiled and shook her head. ”I haven't an ocean,” Beth proceeded. ”You don't see it? Well, I didn't at first. You see _an ocean_ and _a notion_ sound the same if you say them sharp. Now, do you see? They call that a pun.”

”Who told you that?”

”A gentleman in the train.”

Beth put her pencil in her mouth, and gazed up at the sky. ”I don't suppose he'd be such a black-hearted villain as to break his word,”

she said at last.

”Who?” Aunt Grace Mary asked, in a startled tone.

”Uncle James--about leaving Jim the place, you know. Why, don't you know? Mamma is the eldest, and ought to have had Fairholm, but she was away in Ireland, busy having me, when grandpapa died, and couldn't come; so Uncle James frightened the old man into leaving the place to him, and mamma only got fifty pounds a year, which wasn't fair.”