"She's stealing my milk, and I'll tell mamma," said Betsy.

"Tell her then," I cried, and in a burst of anger at finding myself
unable to recover control of my bowl I swept it round and flung its
contents over my cousin's head, thereby drenching her with the frothing
milk and making the staircase to run like a river of whitewash.

Of course there was a fearful clamour. Betsy Beauty shrieked and Nessy
bellowed, whereupon Aunt Bridget came racing from her parlour, while my
mother, white and trembling, halted to the door of her room.

"Mally, Mally, what have you done?" cried my mother, but Aunt Bridget
found no need of questions. After running upstairs to her dripping
daughter, wiping her down with a handkerchief, calling her "my poor
darling," and saying, "Didn't I tell you to have nothing more to do with
that little vixen?" she fell on my mother with bitter upbraidings.

"Isabel, I hope you see now what your minx of a child is--the little
spiteful fury!"

By this time I had dropped my empty bowl on the stairs and taken refuge
behind my mother's gown, but I heard her timid voice trying to excuse
me, and saying something about my cousin and a childish quarrel.

"Childish quarrel, indeed!" cried my Aunt; "there's nothing childish
about that little imp, nothing. And what's more, I shall be obliged to
you, Isabel, if you will never again have the assurance to speak of my
Betsy Beauty in the same breath with a child of yours."

That was more than I could hear. My little heart was afire at the