"That's a way to behave!" cries my sister.
"I cannot help it," my mother gasps.
"And there's nothing to laugh at."
"It's that woman," my mother explains unnecessarily.
"Maybe she's not the woman you think her," I say, crushed.
"Maybe not," says my mother doubtfully. "What was her name?"
"Her name," I answer with triumph, "was not Margaret;" but this makes her ripple again. "I have so many names nowadays," she mutters.
"H'sh!" says my father, and the reading is resumed.
Perhaps the woman who came along the path was of tall and majestic figure, which should have shown my mother that I had contrived to start my train without her this time. But it did not.
"What are you laughing at now?" says my sister severely. "Do you not hear that she was a tall, majestic woman?"
"It's the first time I ever heard it said of her," replies my mother.
"But she is."
"Ke fy, havers!"
"The book says it."
"There will be a many queer things in the book. What was she wearing?"
I have not described her clothes. "That's a
