Miss Bosey Brantonniere arrived at her aunt’s house with three trunks, a large, circular, tin bathtub, a bundle of umbrellas and sunshades, and a small dog. She was a pretty, energetic-looking girl, with her chin in the air, tastefully dressed in the latest fashion, and dispersing an atmosphere of bustle and importance about her. Daniel had driven her up the field road, depositing her at the back entrance, where Madame, from her window, commanded a complete view of her arrival.
“I thought you would have sent the carriage for me, Tante Félicie, but Daniel tells me you have no carriage,” said the girl after the first greetings were over. She had had her trunks taken to her room, the tub slipped under the bed, and now she sat fondling the dog and talking to Tante Félicie.
The old lady shook her head dismally and her lips curled into a disparaging smile.
“Oh! no, no! The ol’ carriage ‘as been sol’ ages ago to Zéphire Lablatte. It was falling to piece’ in the shed. Me – I never stir f’um w’ere you see me; it is good two year’ since ‘ave been inside the church, let alone to go en promenade.”
“Well, I’m going to take all care and bother off your shoulders, Tante Félicie,” uttered the girl cheerfully. “I’m going to brighten things up for you, and we’ll see how quickly you’ll improve. Why, in less than two months I’ll have you on your feet, going about as spry as anybody.”
