The Staying Guest

“Oh, am I?” said Ladybird, with a wise smile, and an air as of one humoring a wayward child.

“You are indeed,” said her aunt, severely; “and now, if you will come into the morning-room with us, we will ask you a few questions before you go.”

“All right, come on,” said Ladybird; and she grasped Miss Priscilla’s hand in both her own, and danced along at the old lady’s side.

Miss Dorinda followed, and she and her sister took their accustomed seats in the bay-window.

Then Ladybird placed a low ottoman at Miss Priscilla’s side and sat down upon it, and laid her head against her aunt’s knee.

Although Miss Dorinda might seem to a casual observer to be a softer, kinder nature than her elder sister, yet for some unaccountable reason Ladybird felt more attracted toward Miss Priscilla; and, too, the child could already see that Miss Priscilla’s word was law at Primrose Hall, and that Miss Dorinda merely acquiesced in her sister’s decisions.

But it was no spirit of diplomacy that actuated Ladybird, and she caressed Miss Priscilla’s hand for the simple reason that she was beginning to love the stern old lady.

“Now,” said Miss Priscilla, glaring at her niece, “will you tell me what your name is?”

“Ladybird Lovell,” said the little girl, with a bewitching smile.

“I mean your real name, not that absurd nickname.”

“It is my real name. I never had any other.”

“Nonsense! Your real name is Lavinia Lovell.”

“It is? All right – Lavinia Lovell, then. I don’t mind.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twelve years old.”

“You are not! You are fourteen.”

“Yes, ’m. Fourteen.”

Ladybird began to treat her aunt as one would treat a harmless lunatic who must be humored, whatever she might say.

“And why have you black eyes and straight black hair? Your father wrote, when you were a baby, that you had blue eyes and golden curls.”

“Did he write that? Why, how I have changed, haven’t I? Did you ever know a baby to change as much as that before?”

“No, I never did. And I don’t say that I would have kept you here if you had had blue eyes and golden hair; but it might have influenced me if you had looked more like your mother, – and your father said you did. As it is, I cannot think of allowing you to stay here, and so when your trunks come this morning – and I suppose Mr. Marks will bring them pretty soon – I shall send them back, and you with them, to Boston. There my lawyer will meet you and start you back to London. Mr. Thomas J. Bond had no right to send you here uninvited, and he may burden some one else with you. I positively decline the honor.”

Ladybird had paid polite attention at first, but toward the end of her aunt’s speech her mind began to wander, and as Miss Priscilla finished the child said:

“Aunty, I can make poetry, can you?”

Now the one ambition of Priscilla Flint’s early life had been to become a poetess.

Her favorite day-dream was of a beautiful volume, bound in blue and gold, that should contain poems like those of Mrs. Hemans. But though she had written many, many verses, – and indeed, had a little hair-trunk in the attic packed quite full of them, – yet she had never been able to summon sufficient courage to offer them to any publisher; and lately she had begun to think she never would, for poetry had changed since Mrs. Hemans’s day, and she doubted if her efforts would stand the tests of modern editors or publishers.

But she said: “Yes, child, I have written poetry. It is a talent that runs in our family. Have you written any?”

“Oh, no, I don’t write it. I just say it. Like this, you know:

“I have a dear aunt named Priscilla,
Who lives in a beautiful villa;
She has lovely old cups,
But she can’t abide pups,
And she flavors her cake with vanilla.

“That’s the kind I make. Of course you have to use words that rhyme, whether the sense is very good or not. I made this one too:

“There once was a lady named Biddy,
Who cried because she was a widdy;
When her husband fell dead,
She thoughtfully said,
‘He didn’t live very long, did he?’

“Now tell me some of your poetry, aunty.”

“You wouldn’t appreciate mine, child, – you couldn’t understand it.”

“No, ’m; I s’pose not. But I’d love to hear it.”

“Tell her ‘The Sunset Star,’ sister,” said Miss Dorinda.

Miss Priscilla simpered a little; then, folding her hands, she recited:

“The sunset star is shining
Across the meadow green;
The woodbine vines are twining
The trellises between;

“And every pleasant evening
I watch it from afar,
Romantic fancies weaving
About that evening star.”

“Why, aunty, that’s lovely,” exclaimed Ladybird: “and I do understand it. I know the sunset star that comes out in the sky just as the sun goes down. Yours is more poetry than mine, but mine are funnier. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, child; but as you grow older you’ll see that poetry is more important than fun.”

“Yes; and then I’ll learn to make verses like yours. Can you make poetry too, Aunt Dorinda?”

“No,” said Miss Dorinda, simply; “my talent is for painting.”

“Oh, is it? And do you paint pictures? And will you teach me how? I’ve always wanted to learn to paint, and I’m very industrious. I can play on the piano like a house afire.”

“Sister Lavinia used to play the piano very prettily,” said Miss Dorinda; “doubtless you have inherited her talent.”