Part 9 (2/2)

”I _know_ that, thank you,” says the youngest Miss Beresford, uncompromisingly, fixing her aunt with a stony glare. ”I know my birthday as well as most people. And so, just because I am a child, I am to be slighted, am I? I call it unfair! I call it beastly _mean_, that every one here is to be invited out to enjoy themselves except _me_.”

”Young people are seldom asked to grown-up parties,” says Miss Priscilla, in her best conciliatory manner. ”When you are as old as Monica, of course you will go everywhere. In the meantime you are only a child.”

”I am old enough to conduct myself properly, at all events,” says Kit, unmoved. ”I suppose at _fourteen_”--as if this is an age replete with wisdom--”I am not likely to do anything _very_ extraordinary, or make myself unpleasant, or be in anybody's way.”

”That is not the question, at all: it is merely one of age,” says Miss Priscilla.

”Is it? And yet people say a great deal about childhood being the happiest time of one's life,” says Kit, almost choking with scornful rage. ”I should just like to see the fellow who first said that. Maybe I wouldn't enlighten him, and tell him what a hypocrite he was. Whoever said it, it is a decided untruth, and I know I wish to goodness I was grown up, because then,” with withering emphasis, ”I should not be trampled upon and insulted!”

This is dreadful. The two old ladies, unaccustomed in their quiet lives to tornadoes and volcanoes of any kind, are almost speechless with fright.

”Dearest,” says Monica, going up to her, ”how _can_ you look at it in such a light?”

”It's all very well for you,” says the indignant Kit: ”_you're_ going, you know. I'm to stay at home, like that wretched Cinderella!”

”Katherine, I am sure you are quite unaware of the injustice of your remarks,” says Miss Priscilla, at last finding her voice. She is bent on delivering a calm rebuke; but inwardly (as any one can see) she is quaking. ”And I have frequently told you before that the expression 'I wish to goodness,' which you used just now, is anything but ladylike. It is not nice; it is not proper.”

”I don't care what is proper or improper, when I am treated as I now am,” says the rebel, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and undaunted front.

”There is really _nothing_ to complain of,” says Miss Priscilla, earnestly, seeing censure has no effect. ”Madam O'Connor would not willingly offend any one; she is a very kind woman, and----”

”She is a regular old wretch!” says the youngest Miss Beresford, with considerable spirit.

”My _dear_ Katherine!”

”And it's my belief she has done it _on purpose_!” with increasing rage.

”Katherine, I must insist----”

”You may insist as you like, but I'll be even with her yet,” persists Kit, after which, being quite overcome with wrath, she breaks down, and bursts into a violent fit of weeping.

”My dear child, don't do that,” says Miss Penelope, rising precipitately, and going over to the weeping fury. ”Priscilla,” in a trembling tone, ”I fear it is selfish. I think, my dear, I shall stay at home, too, the day you all go to Madam O'Connor's.”

This kills the storm at once.

”No, no, indeed, Aunt Penny, you shan't.” Kit cries, subdued, but still in tears. She is overcome with remorse, and blames herself cruelly in that her ill temper should have led to this proposal of self-sacrifice.

To give in to Kit is the surest and quickest method of gaining your own point. She throws her arms, as she speaks, around Miss Penelope's neck, and nearly strangles that dear old lady in her remorseful agitation, to say nothing of the deadly havoc she makes of her frills and laces.

”But indeed, my Kitten, it will be no privation to me to stay at home with you, and we will be quite happy together, and we will have our tea out in the orchard,” says Miss Penelope, soothing her with sweet words; while Miss Priscilla, who is thoroughly frightened by the sobbing, pats the refractory child on the back, with a view to allaying all fear of convulsions.

”You shan't stay at home, Aunt Penny,--you shan't indeed,” cries the inconsistent Kitten. ”I like being alone, I _love_ it; if you don't go to that place with the long name, and enjoy yourself very much, I shall be miserable all my life, though I love you very, very, _very_ much for wis.h.i.+ng to keep me from being lonely. Tell her I mean it, Monica.”

”Yes, I am sure she means it,” says Monica, earnestly, whereupon peace is once more restored to the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the terrified aunts.

CHAPTER VI.

How Monica goes to Aghyohillbeg, and meets there an old friend and a very new one.

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