Aunt Jane's Nieces
His head was whirling with amazement, his heart full of indignation.
Girls! Girls at Elmhurst--nieces and guests of the fierce old woman
he so bitterly hated! Then, indeed, his days of peace and quiet were
ended. These dreadful creatures would prowl around everywhere; they
might even penetrate the shrubbery to the foot of the stairs leading
to his own retired room; they would destroy his happiness and drive
him mad.
For this moody, silent youth had been strangely happy in his life
at Elmhurst, despite the neglect of the grim old woman who was its
mistress and the fact that no one aside from Lawyer Watson seemed to
care whether he lived or died.
Perhaps Donald did. Good old Don was friendly and seldom bothered him
by talking. Perhaps old Misery liked him a bit, also. But these were
only servants, and almost as helpless and dependent as himself.
Still, he had been happy. He began to realize it, now that these awful
girls had come to disturb his peace. The thought filled him with grief
and rebellion and resentment; yet there was nothing he could do to
alter the fact that Donald's "young females" were already here, and
prepared, doubtless, to stay.
The sorrel was dashing down the road at a great pace, but the boy
clung firmly to his seat and gloried in the breeze that fanned his hot
cheeks. Away and away he raced until he reached the crossroads, miles
away, and down this he turned and galloped as recklessly as before.
The sun was hot, today, and the sorrel's flanks begun to steam and
show flecks of white upon their glossy surface. He turned again to the
left, entering upon a broad highway that would lead him straight home
at last; but he had almost reached the little village of Elmwood,
which was the railway station, before he realized his cruelty to the
splendid mare he bestrode. Then indeed, he fell to a walk, patting
Nora's neck affectionately and begging her to forgive him for his
thoughtlessness. The mare tossed her head in derision. However she
might sweat and pant, she liked the glorious pace even better than her
rider.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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