to take her. She has more of this world’s goods than any of us.”
“Aunt Nancy would never dream of taking her and you know it well enough!” said Uncle Oliver. “Besides, she’s entirely too old to have the bringing up of a child—her and that old witch Caroline. Upon my soul, I don’t believe either of them is human. I would like to take Emily—but I feel that I can hardly do it. I’ve a large family to provide for.”
“She’ll not likely live long to bother any one,” said Aunt Elizabeth crisply. “She’ll probably die of consumption same as her father did.”
(“I won’t—I won’t!” exclaimed Emily—at least she thought it with such vim that it almost seemed that she exclaimed it. She forgot that she had wanted to die soon, so that she could overtake Father. She wanted to live now, just to put the Murrays in the wrong. “I haven’t any intention of dying. I’m going to live—for ages—and be a famous authoress—you’ll just see if I don’t, Aunt Elizabeth Murray!”)
“She is a weedy looking child,” acknowledged Uncle Wallace.
(Emily relieved her outraged feelings by making a face at Uncle Wallace through the tablecloth. “If I ever possess a pig I am going to name it after you,” she thought—and then felt quite satisfied with her revenge.)
“Somebody has to look after her as long as she’s alive though, you know,” said Uncle Oliver.
(“It would serve you all right if I did die and you suffered terrible remorse for it all the rest of your lives,” Emily thought. Then in the pause that happened to follow, she dramatically pictured out her funeral, selected her pall-bearers, and tried to choose the hymn verse that she wanted engraved on her tombstone. But before she could settle this Uncle Wallace began again.)
