ngue, and
hands, never were still from morning till night; and the life of Sir
Rupert's nurse, hitherto one of idle ease, became all at once a misery
to her. The little girl was everywhere--everywhere; especially where she
had no business to be; and nurse never knew an easy moment for trotting
after her, and rescuing her from all sorts of perils. She could climb
like a cat, or a goat; and risked her neck about twenty times per diem;
she sailed her shoes in her soup, and washed her hands in her
milk-and-water. She became the intimate friend of the pretty peacocks,
and the big, good-tempered dogs, with whom, in utter fearlessness, she
rolled about in the grass half the day. She broke young Rupert's toys,
tore his picture-books, slapped his face, pulled his hair, and made
herself master of the situation before she had been twenty-four hours in
the house. She was thoroughly and completely spoiled. What India nurses
had left undone, injudicious petting and flattery, on the homeward
passage, had completed, and her temper was something appalling. Her
shrieks of passion at the slightest contradiction of her imperial will
rang through the house, and rent the tortured tympanums of all who
heard. The little Xantippe would fling herself flat on the carpet, and
literally scream herself black in the face, until, in dread of apoplexy
and sudden death, her frightened hearers hastened to yield. Of course,
one such victory insured all the rest. As for Sir Rupert, before she
had been a week at Thetford Towers, he dared not call his soul his own.
She had partially scalped him on several occasions, and left the mark of
her cat-like nails in his tender visage; but her venomous power of
screeching for hours at will, had more to do with the little baronet's
dread of her than anything else. He fled ingloriously in every
battle--running in tears to mamma, and leaving the field and the
trophies of victory triumphantly to Miss Everard. With all this, when
not thwarted--when allowed to smash toys, and dirty her clothes, and
smear her infantile face, and tear pictures, and torment inoffensive
lapdogs; when allowed, in short, to follow "her own sweet will," little
May was as charming a fairy as ever the sun shone on. Her gleeful laugh
made music in the dreary old rooms, such as had never been heard there
for many a day, and her mischievous antics were the delight of all who
did not suffer thereby. The servants petted and indulged her, and fed
her on u