“No-o-o, I guess not. But I think
they were sometimes spanked when they were small.”
“A spanking doesn’t amount to anything,”
said Mary contemptuously. “If my folks
had just spanked me I’d have thought they were
petting me. Well, it ain’t a fair world.
I wouldn’t mind taking my share of wallopings
but I’ve had a darn sight too many.”
“It isn’t right to say that word, Mary,”
said Una reproachfully. “You promised me
you wouldn’t say it.”
“G’way,” responded Mary. “If
you knew some of the words I could say if I liked
you wouldn’t make such a fuss over darn.
And you know very well I hain’t ever told any
lies since I come here.”
“What about all those ghosts you said you saw?”
asked Faith.
Mary blushed.
“That was diff’runt,” she said defiantly.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe them yarns
and I didn’t intend you to. And I really
did see something queer one night when I was passing
the over-harbour graveyard, true’s you live.
I dunno whether ’twas a ghost or Sandy Crawford’s
old white nag, but it looked blamed queer and I tell
you I scooted at the rate of no man’s business.”
Rilla Blythe walked proudly, and perhaps a little
primly, through the main “street” of the
Glen and up the manse hill, carefully carrying a small
basketful of early strawberries, which Susan had coaxed
into lusciousness in one of the sunny nooks of Ingleside.
Susan had charged Rilla to give the basket to nobody
except Aunt Martha or Mr. Meredith, and Rilla, very
proud of being entrusted with such an errand, was
resolved to carry out her instructions to the letter.
Susan had dressed her daintily in a white, starched,
and embroidered dress, with sash of blue and beaded
slippers. Her long ruddy curls were sleek and
round, and Susan had let her put on her best hat,
out of compliment to the manse. It was a somewhat
elaborate affair, wherein Susan’s taste had had
more to say than Anne’s, and Rilla’s small
soul gloried in its splendours of silk and lace and
flowers. She was very conscious of her hat,
and I am afraid she strutted up the manse hill.
The strut, or the hat, or both, got on the nerves
of Mary Vance, who was swinging on the lawn gate.
Mary’s temper was somewhat ruffled just then,
into the bargain. Aunt Martha had refused to
let her peel the potatoes and had ordered her out
of the kitchen.
“Yah! You’ll bring the potatoes
to the table with strips of skin hanging to them and
half boiled as usual! My, but it’ll be
nice to go to your funeral,” shrieked Mary.
She went out of the kitchen, giving the door such
a bang that even Aunt Martha heard it, and Mr. Meredith
in his study felt the vibration and thought absently
that there must have been a slight earthquake shock.
Then he went on with his sermon.
Mary slipped from the gate and confronted the spick-and-span
damsel of Ingleside.
