said Cousin Jimmy in the eerie tone in which he generally said such things. It always made Elizabeth shiver—she could never forget that his eeriness was her fault. “Emily can’t promise what you want. Can you, Emily?”
“No.” In spite of herself a couple of big tears rolled down Emily’s cheeks.
“If you could,” said Cousin Jimmy, “you would promise it for me, wouldn’t you?”
Emily nodded.
“You’ve asked too much, Elizabeth,” said Cousin Jimmy to the angry lady of the knitting-needles. ‘“You’ve asked her to give up all her writing—now, if you’d just asked her to give up some—Emily, what if she just asked you to give up some? You might be able to do that, mightn’t you?”
“What some?” asked Emily cautiously.
“Well, anything that wasn’t true, for instance.” Cousin Jimmy sidled over to Emily and put a beseeching hand on her shoulder. Elizabeth did not stop knitting, but the needles went more slowly. “Stories, for instance, Emily. She doesn’t like your writing stories, especially. She thinks they’re lies. She doesn’t mind other things so much. Don’t you think, Emily, you could give up writing stories for three years? An education is a great thing. Your grandmother Archibald would have lived on herring tails to get an education—many a time I’ve heard her say it. Come, Emily?”
Emily thought rapidly. She loved writing stories: it would be a hard thing to give them up. But if she could still write air-born fancies in verse—and weird little Jimmy-book sketches of character—and accounts of everyday events—witty—satirical—tragic—as the humour took her—she might be able to get along.
“Try her—try her,” whispered Cousin Jimmy. “Propitiate her a little. You do owe her a great deal, Emily. Meet her half-way.”
“Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily tremulously, “if you will send me to Shrewsbury I promise you that for three years
