Aunt Abigail began drinking
innocently out of her coffee-cup, only her laughing old eyes showing
over the rim; Uncle Henry buttered a slice of bread with a grave face,
as though he were deep in conjectures about who would be the next
President; and as for old Shep, he made one plunge across the room, his
toe-nails clicking rapidly on the bare floor, sprang up on the couch,
and when Cousin Ann opened the door and came in he was lying in exactly
the position in which she had left him, his paw stretched out, his head
laid on it, his brown eyes turned up meekly so that the whites showed.
I've told you what these three did, but I haven't told you yet what
Elizabeth Ann did. And it is worth telling. As Cousin Ann stepped in,
glancing suspiciously from her sober-faced and abstracted parents to the
lamb-like innocence of old Shep, little Elizabeth Ann burst into a shout
of laughter. It's worth telling about, because, so far as I know, that
was the first time she had ever laughed out heartily in all her life.
For my part, I'm half surprised to know that she knew how.
Of course, when she laughed, Aunt Abigail had to laugh too, setting down
her coffee-cup and showing all the funny wrinkles in her face screwed up
hard with fun; and that made Uncle Henry laugh, and then Cousin Ann
laughed and said, as she sat down, "You are bad children, the whole four
of you!" And old Shep, seeing the state of things, stopped pretending to
be meek, jumped down, and came lumbering over to the table, wagging his
tail and laughing too; you know that good, wide dog-smile! He put his
head on Elizabeth Ann's lap again and she patted it and lifted up one of
his big black ears.
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