shook him his face was not much
in evidence. Johnny disliked, naturally, to tell his aunt Janet that her
own sister and brother-in-law were the parents of such a wicked little
boy. He therefore kept quiet and submitted to the shaking, making
himself as limp as a rag. This, however, exasperated Aunt Janet, who
found herself encumbered by a dead weight of a little boy to be shaken,
and suddenly Johnny Trumbull, the fighting champion of the town, the
cock of the walk of the school, found himself being ignominiously
spanked. That was too much. Johnny's fighting blood was up. He lost all
consideration for circumstances, he forgot that Aunt Janet was not a
boy, that she was quite near being an old lady. She had overstepped the
bounds of privilege of age and sex, and an alarming state of equality
ensued. Quickly the tables were turned. The boy became far from limp. He
stiffened, then bounded and rebounded like wire. He butted, he parried,
he observed all his famous tactics of battle, and poor Aunt Janet sat
down in the dust, black dress, bonnet, glasses (but the glasses were
off and lost), little improving book, black silk gloves, and all; and
Johnny, hopeless, awful, irreverent, sat upon his Aunt Janet's plunging
knees, which seemed the most lively part of her. He kept his face
twisted away from her, but it was not from cowardice. Johnny was afraid
lest Aunt Janet should be too much overcome by the discovery of his
identity. He felt that it was his duty to spare her that. So he sat
still, triumphant but inwardly aghast.

It was fast dawning upon him that his aunt was not a little boy. He was
not afraid of any punishment which might be meted out to him, but he was
simply horrified. He himself had violated all the honorable conditions
of warfare. He felt a little dizzy and ill, and he felt worse when
he ventured a hurried glance at Aunt Janet's face. She was very pale
through the dust, and her eyes were closed. Johnny thought then that he
had killed her.

He got up--the nervous knees were no longer plunging; then he heard a
voice, a little-girl voice, always shrill, but now high pitched to a
squeak with terror. It was the voice of Lily Jennings. She stood near
and yet aloof, a lovely little flower of a girl, all white-scalloped
frills and ribbons, with a big white-frilled hat shading a pale little
face and covering the top of a head decorated with wonderful yellow
curls. She stood behind a big baby-carriage with a pink-lined m