tification. “It’s horrible to live in the same house with any one you hate”
“Poisonous,” agreed Cousin Jimmy.
“And it isn’t my fault. I have tried to like her—tried to please her—she’s always twitting me—she attributes mean motives to everything I do or say—or don’t do or say. I’ve never heard the last of sitting in the corner of the pew—and failing to get a star pin. She’s always hinting insults to my father and mother. And she’s always forgiving me for things I haven’t done—or that don’t need forgiveness.”
“Aggravating—very,” conceded Cousin Jimmy.
“Aggravating—you're right. I know if I go back she’ll say ‘I’ll forgive you this time, but don’t let it happen again.’ And she will sniff—oh, Auth Ruth’s sniff is the hatefulest sound in the world!”
“Ever hear a dull knife sawing through thick cardboard?” murmured Cousin Jimmy.
Emily ignored him and swept on.
“I can’t be always in the wrong—but Aunt Ruth thinks I am—and says she has ‘to make allowances’ for me. She doses me with cod-liver oil—she never lets me go out in the evening if she can help it—‘consumptives should never be out after eight o’clock.’ If she is cold, I must put on an extra petticoat. She is always asking disagreeable questions and refusing to believe my answers. She believes and always will believe that I kept this play a secret from her because of slyness. I never thought of such a thing. Why, the Shrewsbury Times referred to it last week. Aunt Ruth doesn’t often miss anything in the Times. She twitted me for days because she found a composition of mine that I had signed ‘Emilie.’ ‘Better try to spell your name after some unheard-of twist,’ she sneered!”
“Well, wasn’t it a bit silly, pussy?”
“Oh, I suppose my grandmothers wouldn’t have done it! But Aunt Ruth needn’t have kept it up as she did. That is what is so dreadful—if she’d speak her mind
