An iron hand seemed clutching my throat, and I could hardly see for
the blur across my eyes, as I crept out of the room and closed the
door softly.
I sat on the steps for a few moments, then--for I had forgotten my cane
in the study--went slowly upstairs, and that gave me a chance to recover
myself before I reached the schoolroom; though perhaps Nannie noticed
something unusual,--my twinnie's eyes are so sharp, and her heart is so
tender,--for it seemed to me that her voice was very loving as she said,
pushing forward our big old rocker as soon as I entered the room: "You
naughty Fee! you've come up without your cane; you must be tired. Sit
here and get rested."
[Illustration: "ALAN, ON HIS FIERY STEED."]
I _was_ tired,--unusually so,--and was glad to get into the chair. It
was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. Nora was seated
at my easel, humming "A Media Noche," and trying to copy her birthday
picture; Betty and Jack were fencing,--at least, Betty was making
furious lunges at Jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while
every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "Now, Betty,
look out! that was my head," or, "That came within an inch of my nose--I
_do_ wish you'd be careful!" Kathie and the twins were playing house,
holding lively conversations in a high key, while Alan paid them
repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a
broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required
both voice and whip; Nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music
for a certain duet to play with Max when he got home; and in the midst
of all the noise Phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the
seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading Virgil aloud.
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