Little "Why-because"

"AUNTIE, what does 'ruthless' mean?"

"Why do you wish to know, Hecla?"

"I saw it in a book."

"You shall show me the passage by-and-by. Just now you have to work."

Hecla was hemming a small pocket-handkerchief, with red edges. She liked doing this, because it was for "Chris," but she did not love work for its own sake. She liked nothing which meant sitting still.

Hers was a rather curious name. She had been born in Iceland, under the shadow, so to speak, of Mount Hecla. That was why she was so called.

She sat at a small table in the middle of the room, with her back to the window, and Miss Storey, a slender, small, middle-aged lady, was near the fire. At Miss Storey's feet lay a fine black Persian cat, fast asleep; and in the window hung a gilt cage, the canary within ever hopping from perch to perch, except when it stopped to feed or to sing.

Sunshine streamed full upon the cage and upon the draped white curtains. It was a sunny day, but very cold, and patches of snow in the front garden told of a recent fall.

Miss Storey kept very upright and very still, and her small delicate fingers scarcely seemed to move as they knitted. But Hecla was neither upright nor still. She was a restless little mortal; quite as restless as the canary in its cage. She too was slim, and also rather tall for her age; and she had an anxious way of wrinkling her forehead, as if trying to do something beyond her power. She wore a brown holland pinafore over a brown stuff frock, and her hair hung in limp rats' tails down her back.

"Auntie, why does Chris learn Latin, and me not?"

"You may perhaps learn Latin some day, my dear. It is not necessary for you at present."

Hecla managed five stitches in silence.

"Auntie, isn't it most dreadfully cruel of the blackbirds to eat worms? Why don't they eat crumbs—that would be ever so much nicer? I do think it's cruel, don't you?"

"No more cruel than it is of Hecla to eat mutton."

Another pause. Hecla pushed her needle in and out.

"Auntie—"

"Go on with your work, dear."

"I'm going. Auntie—"

"My dear child, you will finish much sooner if you do not talk. Try now!"

Hecla did try. She screwed her forehead into all sorts of shapes, huddled herself into a bunch, and asked no questions for nearly two whole minutes. Her chair kept up a gentle creaking.

"You need not fidget, Hecla."

There were no sounds for quite thirty seconds. Then she forgot. Out went one foot and the other curled itself round the leg of her chair. Her elbow sprawled over the table, and down went a reel of cotton. It rolled away, so of course she had to run after it; and when she came back and plumped into her chair—crash followed.

"My dear Hecla!"

"Oh, auntie, it's my work-box! I'm so sorry!"

"Pick it up carefully. Then you must try to be quiet."

Picking up the fallen box and putting its contents straight was easy. But to be quiet—there lay the difficulty. Do what Hecla would, and try as she might, it always seemed as if the one impossible thing for her was to keep still.

"I've done one whole side of my handkerchief, auntie." She jumped up—and bang! again. Down went her chair, backwards.

"Hecla!"

"Oh dear! Things will tumble so, auntie."

"Not unless they are made."

"I didn't try—truly, I didn't!" Hecla's forehead was all over crinkles.

"No, dear. But did you try not?"

Hecla was not sure. She brought the handkerchief to her aunt, and stood waiting while Miss Storey put on her glasses. But you must not suppose for a moment that Hecla stood still and upright, like a soldier. Nothing of the sort! First she balanced herself on one leg, and then she balanced herself on the other; now she clasped her hands behind her back, and then she stretched them high over her head; next, she gave a skip, and pranced round to the back of Miss Storey's chair.

"Stand still."

Hecla said "Yes," and danced back.

"It is not badly done. One more side, and Elisabeth shall take you out."

That brought another prance. "Oh, I do like going out, and I love going with Elisabeth."

"But you must do as Elisabeth tells you."

"Oh yes, of course, auntie."

She sat down, began again, did six stitches, and sighed. "They are such long sides!"