"It's a very difficult thing to tell stories that children can both
understand and appreciate," she said stiffly.
"I don't agree with you," said the bachelor.
"Perhaps you would like to tell them a story," was the aunt's retort.
"Tell us a story," demanded the bigger of the small girls.
"Once upon a time," began the bachelor, "there was a little girl called
Bertha, who was extraordinarily good."
The children's momentarily-aroused interest began at once to flicker; all
stories seemed dreadfully alike, no matter who told them.
"She did all that she was told, she was always truthful, she kept her
clothes clean, ate milk puddings as though they were jam tarts, learned
her lessons perfectly, and was polite in her manners."
"Was she pretty?" asked the bigger of the small girls.
"Not as pretty as any of you," said the bachelor, "but she was horribly
good."
There was a wave of reaction in favour of the story; the word horrible in
connection with goodness was a novelty that commended itself. It seemed
to introduce a ring of truth that was absent from the aunt's tales of
infant life.
"She was so good," continued the bachelor, "that she won several medals
for goodness, which she always wore, pinned on to her dress. There was a
medal for obedience, another medal for punctuality, and a third for good
behaviour. They were large metal medals and they clicked against one
another as she walked. No other child in the town where she lived had as
many as three medals, so everybody knew that she must be an extra good
child.
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