'Well, now, that is rich! Why, look at that fellow, Carysbroke: he took no
more notice to me than a dog, and kep' talking to you all the time of his
pictures, and his walks, and his people. Why, a pig's better manners than
that.'

'But, Milly dear, you forget, he tried to talk to you, and you would not
answer him,' I expostulated.

'And is not that just what I say--I can't talk like other folk--ladies, I
mean. Every one laughs at me; an' I'm dressed like a show, I am. It's a
shame! I saw Polly Shives--what a lady she is, my eyes!--laughing at me in
church last Sunday. I was minded to give her a bit of my mind. An' I know
I'm queer. It's a shame, it is. Why should _I_ be so rum? it is a shame! I
don't want to be so, nor it isn't my fault.'

And poor Milly broke into a flood of tears, and stamped on the ground, and
buried her face in her short frock, which she whisked up to her eyes; and
an odder figure of grief I never beheld.

'And I could not make head or tail of what he was saying,' cried poor Milly
through her buff cotton, with a stamp; 'and you twigged every word o't. An'
why am I so? It's a shame--a shame! Oh, ho, ho! it's a shame!'

'But, my dear Milly, we were talking of _drawing_, and you have not learned
yet, but you shall--I'll teach you; and then you'll understand all about
it.'

'An' every one laughs at me--even you; though you try, Maud, you can scarce
keep from laughing sometimes. I don't blame you, for I know I'm queer; but
I can't help it; and it's a shame.'