And while I gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear that
contented, bee-like murmur, and now and then a light, rapid step on
the stairs, or about rooms which I do not frequent. What can she find
to be so busy about, the absurd little person? how can she be so happy
in this dull house alone?
There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do not see her wince,
though I drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords, and sing
false on purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask her if she
can play; she can have no ear at all, or she would box mine in
self-defence.
There is somebody, by name Flora, who is looked for daily by
stage-coach. "Flory," says my aunt, "sings like a canary-bird, and
plays a sight,"--and _at sight_ too, it seems. This Miss Flora will be
found to possess a tongue, I hope, and the disposition to give it
exercise. I do not know certainly that Miss Etty--By the way, what is
her real name? I won't condescend to ask any question about her. But
really, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable. Perhaps Henrietta. No,
no, that is too pretty a name; I shall call her _Little Ugly_.
Hark! I have two or three times heard a very musical laugh in the
direction of the kitchen. Heigh-ho! How can any mortal laugh in
Ratborough! Having nothing better to do, I will go and see who this
very merry personage may be.
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