They all had names; and there was a naughty little Alexander, whose
monkey tricks made even Sylvia laugh. Sylvia was very anxious that
the admirable heroine, Hilda, should be rewarded by turning into a
countess; and could not enter into Kate's first objection--founded on
fact--that it could not be without killing all the brothers. "Why
couldn't it be done in play, like so many other things?" To which
Kate answered, "There is a sort of true in play;" but as Sylvia could
not understand her, nor she herself get at her own idea, she went on
to her other objection, a still more startling one--that "She
couldn't wish Hilda anything so nasty!"
And this very ignoble word was long a puzzle to Alice and Sylvia.
Thus the time at the sea-side was very happy--quite the happiest
since Kate's change of fortune. The one flaw in those times on the
sands was when she was alone with Sylvia and Josephine; not in
Sylvia's dulness--that she had ceased to care about--but in a little
want of plain dealing. Sylvia was never wild or rude, but she was
not strictly obedient when out of sight; and when Kate was shocked
would call it very unkind, and caress and beseech her not to tell.
They were such tiny things, that they would hardly bear mention; but
one will do as a specimen. Sylvia was one of those very caressing
children who can never be happy without clinging to their friends,
kissing them constantly, and always calling them dear, love, and
darling.
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