person—at least, I hope she is—and the story about her is perfectly true."
"All right, grandma," blurted out Master Ned; "if it's not going to be creepy, I hope it's funny, that's all."
"I'm afraid you will be disappointed, my dear," continued grandma, shaking her head, "for the story is about myself, and I don't think I ever did anything funny in my whole life."
"About you, grandma?" we all exclaimed, joyfully. "Oh, do tell us!"
"Well, then, children," said grandma, "when I was Gertrude's age"—and here the good old lady glanced pleasantly at me—"I was much like what she is now; that is to say, tall for a girl of fourteen, slight of figure, with long, wavy, fair hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. In fact, if I may be allowed to say so, I was pronounced by good judges to be—ahem!—rather attractive. My eyes are still blue, but the rest of my description is considerably altered, as you see. Such changes will happen, you know, in the course of fifty years, so I shall not give way to fruitless lamentations.
"At the time I mention I was no longer quite a child, but could scarcely be considered a young lady—don't forget that I am speaking of fifty years ago, and that the girls of that period were by no means so advanced and so clever as those of the present day." (I half suspect this was intended ironically.)
"However, when I was fourteen," grandma continued, "I fancy I must have been still very simple-minded, for my existence, apart from my studies, was wrapped up in two passions, love for my only brother, whom I worshipped, and an inordinate fondness for the game of battledore and shuttlecock, then as much in vogue as lawn tennis is now. Of course I loved and revered my father, who was from sixty, and looked older, through grief at the loss of my mother, who died when I was an infant. My brother—whom I used to call 'my big brother'—was twelve years my senior, and we were Colonel Norton's only remaining children, a boy and girl having died before my birth.
"It was during the autumn holidays, one very rainy, unpleasant July day—we sometimes have such July days in London, even now!—and I was in the drawing-room, moping, instead of playing shuttlecock in the garden with my brother Frederick, who was always ready to do anything I asked, or, as he called it, commanded. I was dozing over a stupid book, when all at once I was roused by the sound of voices in the adjoining room, my father's study. In another moment, I heard my father and brother in evident altercation, the former speaking in loud and angry tones—so loud, indeed, that I could hear distinctly every word he uttered, whilst my brother's voice, though pitched in a lower key, was quite audible through the thin partition which separated the two disputants from me.
"'Father,' said Frederick, respectfully but firmly, 'I am resolved to make Mary Cuthbert my wife, because she is in every way worthy to bear our name, and because I love her.'
"You shall not have my consent."
"'And I,' replied my father, 'am equally resolved that you shall not have my consent to marry a penniless governess. Now, if you persist in your intention,
