I've told you what these three did, but I haven't told you yet what
Elizabeth Ann did. And it is worth telling. As Cousin Ann stepped in,
glancing suspiciously from her sober-faced and abstracted parents to the
lamb-like innocence of old Shep, little Elizabeth Ann burst into a shout
of laughter. It's worth telling about, because, so far as I know, that
was the first time she had ever laughed out heartily in all her life.
For my part, I'm half surprised to know that she knew how.

Of course, when she laughed, Aunt Abigail had to laugh too, setting down
her coffee-cup and showing all the funny wrinkles in her face screwed up
hard with fun; and that made Uncle Henry laugh, and then Cousin Ann
laughed and said, as she sat down, "You are bad children, the whole four
of you!" And old Shep, seeing the state of things, stopped pretending to
be meek, jumped down, and came lumbering over to the table, wagging his
tail and laughing too; you know that good, wide dog-smile! He put his
head on Elizabeth Ann's lap again and she patted it and lifted up one of
his big black ears. She had quite forgotten that she was terribly afraid
of big dogs.

After dinner Cousin Ann looked up at the clock and said: "My goodness!
Betsy'll be late for school if she doesn't start right off." She
explained to the child, aghast at this sudden thunderclap, "I let you
sleep this morning as long as you wanted to, because you were so tired
from your journey. But of course there's no reason for missing the
afternoon session."

As Elizabeth Ann continued sitting perfectly still, frozen with alarm,
Cousin Ann jumped up briskly, got the little coat and cap, helped her
up, and began inserting the child's arms into the sleeves. She pulled