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“She is not a Murray, that is plain to be seen,” said Aunt Elizabeth, decidedly and disapprovingly.

“They are talking about me just as if I wasn’t here,” thought Emily, her heart swelling with indignation over the indecency of it.

“I wouldn’t call her a Starr either,” said Uncle Oliver. “Seems to me she’s more like the Byrds—she’s got her grandmother’s hair and eyes.”

“She’s got old George Byrd’s nose,” said Aunt Ruth, in a tone that left no doubt as to her opinion of George’s nose.

“She’s got her father’s forehead,” said Aunt Eva, also disapprovingly.

“She has her mother’s smile,” said Aunt Laura, but in such a low tone that nobody heard her.

“And Juliet’s long lashes—hadn’t Juliet very long lashes?” said Aunt Addie.

Emily had reached the limit of her endurance.

“You make me feel as if I was made up of scraps and patches!” she burst out indignantly.

The Murrays stared at her. Perhaps they felt some compunction—for, after all, none of them were ogres and all were human, more or less. Apparently nobody could think of anything to say, but the shocked silence was broken by a chuckle from Cousin Jimmy—a low chuckle, full of mirth and free from malice.