Possibly Aunt Frances was right, after all, and Elizabeth Ann
WAS a very impressionable child. I wonder, by the way, if anybody ever
saw a child who wasn't.
At one end, the end where Cousin Ann was ironing, stood the kitchen
stove, gleaming black, with a tea-kettle humming away on it, a big hot-
water boiler near it, and a large kitchen cabinet with lots of drawers
and shelves and hooks and things. Beyond that, in the middle of the
room, was the table where they had had supper last night, and at which
the little girl now sat eating her very late breakfast; and beyond that,
at the other end of the room, was another table with an old dark-red
cashmere shawl on it for a cover. A large lamp stood in the middle of
this, a bookcase near it, two or three rocking-chairs around it, and
back of it, against the wall, was a wide sofa covered with bright
cretonne, with three bright pillows. Something big and black and woolly
was lying on this sofa, snoring loudly. As Cousin Ann saw the little
girl's fearful glance alight on this she explained: "That's Step, our
old dog. Doesn't he make an awful noise! Mother says, when she happens
to be alone here in the evening, it's real company to hear Shep snore--
as good as having a man in the house."
Although this did not seem at all a sensible remark to Elizabeth Ann,
who thought soberly to herself that she didn't see why snoring made a
dog as good as a man, still she was acute enough (for she was really
quite an intelligent little girl) to feel that it belonged in the same
class of remarks as one or two others she had noted as "queer" in the
talk at Putney Farm last night.
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