FullReads

Ida relaxed the nervous grasp, to which she had been impelled by her energy on the subject of the pugs, let down her eyebrows, and submitted to be undressed. The least pleasant part of this ceremony may be comprised in the word curl-papers. Ida’s hair was dark, and soft, and smooth, but other little girls wore ringlets, and so this little girl must wear ringlets too. To that end her hair was every night put into curl-papers, with much tight twisting and sharp jerking, and Ida slept upon an irregular layer of small paper parcels, which made pillows a mockery. With all this, however, a damp day, or a good romp, would sometimes undo the night’s work, to the great disgust of Nurse. In her last place, the young lady’s hair had curled with a damp brush, as Ida well knew, and Nurse made so much of her own grievance, in having to use the curl-papers, that no place was left for Ida’s grievance in having to sleep upon them. She submitted this night therefore, as other nights, in patience, and sat swinging her feet and accommodating her head to the sharp tugs, which always seemed to come from unexpected quarters. Perhaps, however, her mind may have been running a little upon grievances, which made her say:

“You know, Nursey, how you are always telling me I ought to be thankful for having things, and not having things, and–“

“I wish you’d talk sense, and not give way with your head so when I pull, Miss Ida,” retorted Nurse, “having things, and not having things; I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, you know, Nursey, the other day when I said I didn’t like bread-and-treacle treacled so long before, and soaked in, and you said I ought to be thankful that I had bread-and-treacle at all, and that I hadn’t a wooden leg, and to eat anything I could get, like the old sailor man at the corner; well, do you know, I’ve thought of something I am so thankful for, and that is that I haven’t a red screen to my bed.”

“I really do think, Miss Ida,” said Nurse, “that you’ll go out of your mind some day, with your outlandish fancies. And where you get them, I can’t think. I’m sure I never put such things into your head.”

Ida laughed again.

“Never mind, Nursey, it all belongs to the pug story. Am I done now? And when you’ve tucked me up, please, would you mind remembering to put the flower where I can see it when I wake?”

Nurse did as she was asked, and Ida watched the hyacinth till she fell asleep; and she slept well.

In the morning she took her old post at the window. The little old lady had never seemed so long in making her appearance, nor the bells so slow to begin. Chim! chime! chim! chime! There they were at last, and there was Mrs. Overtheway. She looked up, waved a bunch of snowdrops, and went after the bells. Ida kissed her hand, and waved it over and over again, long after the little old lady was out of sight.

“There’s a kiss for you, dear Mrs. Overtheway,” she cried, “and kisses for your flowers, and your house, and everything belonging to you, and for the bells and the church, and everybody in it this morning, and–“

But, at this point of universal benevolence, Nurse carried her off to breakfast.

The little old lady came to tea as before. She looked as well as ever, and Nurse was equally generous in the matter of tea and toast. Mrs. Overtheway told over again what Ida had missed in the story of Mrs. Moss, and Ida apologized, with earnest distress, for her uncivil conduct in falling asleep.

“There I was snoring away, when you were telling me such a delightful story!” she exclaimed, penitently.

“Not snoring exactly, my dear,” smiled the little old lady, “but you looked very happy.”

“I thought Nursey said so,” said Ida. “Well, I’m very glad. It would have been too rude. And you know I don’t know how it was, for I am so fond of stories; I like nothing so well.”

“Well, shall I try again?” said Mrs. Overtheway. “Perhaps I may find a more amusing one, and if it does put you to sleep, it won’t do any harm. Indeed, I think the doctor will say I’m very good company for you.”

“You are very good! That I can tell him,” said Ida, fervently, “and please let it be about yourself again, if you can remember anything. I like true stories.”

“Talking of snoring,” said Mrs. Overtheway, “reminds me of something that happened in my youth, and it is true, though, do you know, it is a ghost story.”

Ida danced in her chair.

“That is just what I should like!” she exclaimed. “Nurse has a ghost story, belonging to a farm-house, which she tells the housemaid, but she says she can’t tell me till I am older, and I should so like to hear a ghost story, if it isn’t too horrid.”

“This ghost story isn’t too horrid, I think,” laughed the little old lady, “and if you will let me think a few minutes, and then forgive my prosy way of telling it, you shall have it at once.”

There was a pause. The little old lady sat silent, and so sat Ida also, with her eyes intently fixed on Mrs. Overtheway’s face, over which an occasional smile was passing.

“It’s about a ghost who snored,” said the little old lady, doubtfully.

“Delicious!” responded Ida. The two friends settled themselves comfortably.