Chapter III

"I think sometimes that I can't stand it another day, Cynthia. It makes me miserable to sit at the table with her, and I have grown to fairly dread meal-times. When she takes her soup she sucks it from the spoon; she drinks her tea with long sips that set my nerves on edge. She drums on the table with her fingers, wipes her mouth on a corner of the table-cloth, and puts her fingers into the bowl of loaf-sugar. I actually saw her once use her thumb to take a fly out of the bowl of honey."

"Anything else?" asked Cynthia, dryly, her brown eyes looking very steadily on her sister's face.

"Yes, dozens of other things. But what is the use of enumerating them? It can't help matters. I only know that I have actually suffered every day of the two weeks I have been here," and Ida sighed heavily as she resumed her sewing. She was making a dainty little fichu of chiffon and some scraps of old lace. Aunt Patty had found the lace in an old chest of odds and ends of the finery of her early youth, and had at once given it all to Ida.

The two girls were alone in the pleasant sitting-room. Aunt Patty had gone to call upon a sick neighbor, carrying a glass of her golden apple jelly. She was not expected back until supper-time.

"You girls can have a nice, long, pleasant afternoon together," she said on leaving.

But it didn't prove a pleasant afternoon to either Ida or Cynthia, for as usual, when they were out of Aunt Patty's hearing, Ida began to talk of the many things which made her present home unpleasant to her.

"No," said Cynthia, after a long pause, during which she had steadily darned stockings; "talking can't help matters, and you'd better learn as soon as you can to make the best of things, Ida. Aunt Patty is too old now to be made over. It is a pity you could not have gone to Europe with Aunt Stina."

"It was more than a pity, it was a shame," said Ida, flushing. "But while I hoped she'd offer to take me, I did not expect it. Aunt Stina is refined to the last degree, and has elegant manners, but she is not generous. During the six years I was with her she kept scrupulously to her bargain; she gave me a home, and paid my school bills—nothing more."

"Never any presents?" asked Cynthia.

"Nothing, except finery and old clothes for which she had no further use herself. It was pretty hard sometimes; there were so many things I wanted. But I never hinted nor asked for any thing. In the first place, I was too proud, and then I knew it would be useless. She never cared to spend her money on any one except herself, and often complained bitterly at having to pay such heavy school bills."

"It must have made you feel dreadfully," said Cynthia. "Now Aunt Patty hasn't a stingy bone in her body."

"No; she's very generous," admitted Ida.

"You'd say that more heartily if you knew how she used to pinch and contrive in order to send you a little extra money, Ida. She was always making little plans for you, and was so proud whenever you wrote that you'd taken a prize."

"She has her good qualities, of course, Cynthia; I admit that. But I do wish she understood a little about table etiquette. I don't wonder now that Aunt Stina used to shrug her shoulders and smile whenever Aunt Patty's name was mentioned. She often used to say that I didn't realize from what a depth she had rescued me."

A little spark of indignation burned in Cynthia's brown eyes as she looked up quietly.

"It was unkind of her to say that," she exclaimed. "And why was she willing to send you back to such an uncivilized place?"

"Because she found it convenient to do so," answered Ida, coolly. "Self first, always, with Aunt Stina."

"And it is never self with Aunt Patty." Cynthia's tone was warm. "What do her little peculiarities matter? If you made up your mind not to let them annoy you, Ida, you would soon cease to notice them."

Ida shook her head and smiled incredulously. "They would always annoy me," she said. "I pity you, Cynthia, for having had to live with her all these years."

"You needn't; I have never pitied myself."

"Well, you are used to her, and of course that makes a great difference. You probably don't notice things that drive me nearly wild."

"There you are mistaken, Ida. But when I think how Aunt Patty took us in when we were troublesome little children, homeless and penniless, and how many sacrifices she has made for us, I feel that I can't do enough to show my love and gratitude. And I believe the day will come when you will appreciate her just as I do, and be heartily sorry that you ever allowed yourself to be ashamed of her, or to utter one word to her discredit."

"Well, I declare, Cynthia, you have read me quite a lecture." Ida laughed as she spoke. She did not seem at all offended. "You are a quaint, old-fashioned little soul, Cynthia. I suppose you don't realize it, though. I wonder if I would have been like you if Aunt Stina had left me here?"

Tears stood thickly in Cynthia's eyes. She wiped them away with the stocking she was darning. She could not trust herself to say another word.

"Have I offended you by calling you quaint and old-fashioned?" asked Ida. "Well, then, you must forgive me, Cynthia, for I didn't intend to be unkind."

Cynthia, who loved her sister dearly in spite of her faults, could not resist the kiss Ida laid lightly on her cheek. She smiled through her tears. "I must try not to be so sensitive," she said. "Of course I know I must strike you as peculiar; I'm so different from the other girls you have known. That Angela Leverton, for instance, to whom you are always writing."

"Oh, Angela is not perfection by any means," said Ida. "But she is very refined, and nothing she does is ever out of taste. We were inseparable, and I miss her dreadfully now."

"Why not have her come to spend a few weeks with us this summer?" asked Cynthia. "I know Aunt Patty—" She stopped suddenly, then added, in a changed tone: "But, of course, it wouldn't do; you'd be ashamed to have her see how you're living now."

"No, I wouldn't care to have her come," said Ida, frankly. "She wouldn't enjoy a visit of even a few days. What could I do to amuse her? Take her to the store to get weighed, I suppose, and to the meetings of your little Band of Hope Circle."

Cynthia laughed. "It isn't very gay here, that's a fact," she said.

Ida had finished the fichu, and was now trying its effect upon herself before the little mirror between the two windows. Suddenly she gave a little start. "There's Mrs. Lennox's carriage coming down the road," she said. "Cynthia, I do believe it is going to stop here. Yes, it has stopped, and Mrs. Lennox is getting out. Where shall we receive her? That dreadfully stuffy parlor—"

"Go out and meet her on the front porch," said Cynthia. "She can sit down there. It is you she wants to see, of course. If she asks for me, you can let me know."

Ida was so graceful in her air of taking it as a matter of course that Mrs. Lennox would prefer a seat on the vine-clad porch, that it did not occur to that lady to wonder why she was not asked into the parlor.

Mrs. Lennox, moreover, was no stickler for ceremony. She was a gentle, refined woman, whose heart was overflowing with good-will toward every one. She found her greatest happiness in making others happy, and it was with the object of contributing a little toward the pleasure of Mrs. Patty Dean's two nieces that she had come to call upon them.

She lived in a handsome house, a mile from the village, and entertained a great deal during the summer, spending the winter months in the South.

"I have noticed you at church," she said to Ida, "and I have been intending every day to call upon you, but I have had a houseful of company. You have been here about a fortnight, I think, and of course you have had a very happy time with your dear aunt and sister; but I hope you will not object to a little dissipation now, for I want you and Cynthia to come to a lawn party I expect to give next Tuesday."

"How delightful! And how kind of you to think of us!" said Ida.

"Ah! but I need all the young girls I can muster, and I expect several from town," rejoined Mrs. Lennox. "One of them, Angela Leverton, writes me that she is a particular friend of yours."

"Angela! coming to Brookville!" exclaimed Ida. There was consternation as well as surprise in her voice.

"Yes; she will make me a visit of a week or ten days. I expect her on Saturday. Now can I depend on having you and Cynthia for my lawn party?"

"Yes, I—I think so," answered Ida, whose heart was beating very fast. "It is so good of you to want us, Mrs. Lennox."

When, a few minutes later, Mrs. Lennox went away, Ida accompanied her to the gate, and stood there after the carriage had disappeared from view. She stared straight before her, a little frown on her smooth white brow. She was trying to make up her mind to do something which her conscience, that infallible monitor, told her was both mean and unkind. She started and colored when Cynthia's voice fell suddenly on her ear.

"I thought you were never coming in, Ida," she said. "What did Mrs. Lennox want?"

"She wanted to invite me to a garden party," answered Ida, without looking at her sister. "But of course I can't go. I have nothing fit to wear."

"Not go!" exclaimed Cynthia. "Oh, Ida, you must! It will be perfectly delightful. She gave one last year, and had a band of music, fireworks, refreshments served in tents, colored lanterns on the trees, and everything else you can imagine. She told me all about it herself, when she called one day soon after to see Aunt Patty, and she promised that if she ever gave another I should be invited. I suppose, however, she forgot it, or perhaps she thinks I'm too young. Anyhow, I'm glad she asked you."

"Yes; it was very nice of her," rejoined Ida, in a stiff tone. "But I really have nothing suitable for such an occasion, and I am sure you have no party dress, Cynthia."

"No; but if she had invited me I could have worn my pink organdie."

"That faded, forlorn thing!"

"Well, what would it matter? No one would pay any attention to me at such a place. I would enjoy myself just looking on. But I wasn't invited, so there is no use talking about it," and she turned around and walked back to the house, a look of disappointment on her face.

Ida leaned over the gate again.

"I suppose I've done a mean thing," she thought. "But it is too late now to alter matters. Moral courage isn't my specialty, I imagine," and she sighed heavily.

Just then a quaint figure, waving an old green silk parasol, came into sight around a bend in the road. It was Aunt Patty. Her face fairly beamed as she saw Ida.

"Watching for me, dearie?" she called out, as she drew within speaking-distance. "Bless your tender heart! Well, I've something grand to tell you girls. Such good news. Where's Cynthia?"