Emily, who had been pointedly ignored by the Murrays at breakfast, was called into the parlour when the meal was over.
They were all there—the whole phalanx of them—and it occurred to Emily as she looked at Uncle Wallace, sitting in the spring sunshine, that she had not just found the exact word after all to express his peculiar quality of grimness.
Aunt Elizabeth stood unsmilingly by the table with slips of paper in her hand.
“Emily,” she said, “last night we could not decide who should take you. I may say that none of us feel very much like doing so, for you have behaved very badly in many respects—”
“Oh, Elizabeth,—” protested Laura. “She—she is our sister’s child.”
Elizabeth lifted a hand regally.
“I am doing this, Laura. Have the goodness not to interrupt me. As I was saying, Emily, we could not decide as to who should have the care of you. So we have agreed to Cousin Jimmy’s suggestion that we settle the matter by lot. I have our names here, written on these slips of paper. You will draw one and the one whose name is on it will give you a home.”
Aunt Elizabeth held out the slips of paper. Emily trembled so violently that at first she could not draw one. This was terrible—it seemed as if she must blindly settle her own fate.
“Draw,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
