operly, at all events," says Kit,
unmoved. "I suppose at _fourteen_"--as if this is an age replete with
wisdom--"I am not likely to do anything _very_ extraordinary, or make
myself unpleasant, or be in anybody's way."

"That is not the question, at all: it is merely one of age," says Miss
Priscilla.

"Is it? And yet people say a great deal about childhood being the
happiest time of one's life," says Kit, almost choking with scornful
rage. "I should just like to see the fellow who first said that. Maybe I
wouldn't enlighten him, and tell him what a hypocrite he was. Whoever
said it, it is a decided untruth, and I know I wish to goodness I was
grown up, because then," with withering emphasis, "I should not be
trampled upon and insulted!"

This is dreadful. The two old ladies, unaccustomed in their quiet lives
to tornadoes and volcanoes of any kind, are almost speechless with
fright.

"Dearest," says Monica, going up to her, "how _can_ you look at it in
such a light?"

"It's all very well for you," says the indignant Kit: "_you're_ going,
you know. I'm to stay at home, like that wretched Cinderella!"

"Katherine, I am sure you are quite unaware of the injustice of your
remarks," says Miss Priscilla, at last finding her voice. She is bent on
delivering a calm rebuke; but inwardly (as any one can see) she is
quaking. "And I have frequently told you before that the expression 'I
wish to goodness,' which you used just now, is anything but ladylike. It
is not nice; it is not proper."

"I don't care what is proper or improper, when I am treated as I now
am," says the rebel, with flashing eyes and undaunted front.

"There is really _nothing_ to complain of," says Miss Priscilla,
earnestly, seeing censure has no effect. "Madam O'Connor would not
willingly offend any one; she is a very kind woman, and----"

"She is a regular old wretch!" says the youngest Miss Beresford, with
considerable spirit.

"My _dear_ Katherine!"

"And it's my belief she has done it _on purpose_!" with increasing rage.

"Katherine, I must insist----"

"You may insist as you like, but I'll be even with her yet," persists
Kit, after which, being quite overcome with wrath, she breaks down, and
bursts into a violent fit of weeping.

"My dear child, don't do that," says Miss Penelope, rising
precipitately, and going over to the weeping fury. "Priscilla," in a
trembling tone, "I fear it is selfish. I think, my dear, I shall stay at
home, too, th