sent into another room to finish it, to which he made no resistance; he had had enough of actual fighting with Miss Fosbrook.
Then she offered to read a story to the others, but she found that this was distasteful even to her friend Sam; he thought it stupid to be read to, and said he should see after Hal; David trotted after him, and Susan and Anne repaired to the nursery to play with the little ones and the baby. She minded it the less, as they all had some purpose; but she had already been vexed to find that all but Davy preferred the most arrant vacant idleness to anything rational. To be sure, Susan sometimes, Bessie and Hal always, would read any book that made no pretensions to be instructive, but even a fact about a lion or an elephant made them detect wisdom in disguise, and throw it aside. She thought, however, she would make the most of Bessie, and asked whether she would like to hear reading, or read to herself.
“To myself,” said Bessie; and there was a silence, while Miss Fosbrook, glad of the quiet, began reading her Christian Year. Presently she heard a voice so low that it seemed at a distance and it made her start, for it was saying “Christabel!” then she almost laughed, for it seemed to have been an audacious experiment, to judge by little Elizabeth’s scared looks and the glow on her cheeks.
“May I say it sometimes when we are alone together?” she said timidly. “I do like it so much!”
“If it is such a pleasure to you, I would not deprive you of it,” said Miss Fosbrook, laughing; “but don’t do so, except when we are alone, for your Mamma would not like me to seem younger still.”
“Oh, thank you! Isn’t it a nice secret?” cried Bessie, clinging to her hand: “and will you let me hug you sometimes?”
A little love was pleasant to Miss Fosbrook, when she was feeling lonely, and she took Bessie in her lap, and they exchanged caresses, to the damage of the collar that Miss Fosbrook’s sister had worked for her.
“And you don’t call me silly?” cried Bessie.
“That depends,” was the answer, with some arch fun; but Bessie had not much turn for fun, and presently went on—
“And you saw Ida Greville?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think of her?”
“I had not much opportunity of learning what to think.”
“But her parasol, and her bird! Did you think her mama very silly to give her pretty things?”
“No, certainly not, unless she wore them at unsuitable times, or thought too much about them.”
“Ida has so many, she does not think of them at all. And she has shells, and such a lovely work-box, and picture-books; she has all she wants.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Oh, yes, quite sure! and they don’t tease her for liking pretty things; her brothers keep quite away, and never bother about the schoolroom; but she learns Italian and German, and drawing and singing. Mr. Greville said something about our spending the day there. Oh! if we do but go! Won’t you, Miss Fosbrook?”
“If I am asked, and if your Mamma would wish it.”
“Oh, Mamma always lets us go, except once—when—when—”
“When what?”
“When I cried,” said Elizabeth, hanging down her head; “I couldn’t help it. It did seem so tiresome here, and she said I was learning to be discontented; but nobody can help wishing, can they?”
“There must be a way of not breaking the Tenth Commandment.”
“I don’t covet; I don’t want to take things away from Ida, only to have the same.”
“Yes; but what does the explanation at the end of the Duty to our Neighbour say, filling out that Commandment?”
“I think I’ll go and see what Susie is doing,” said Elizabeth.
Christabel sighed as the little girl walked off, displeased at having her repinings set before her in a graver light than that in which she had hitherto chosen to regard them.
She saw no more of her charges till tea-time, when the bell brought them from different quarters, Johnnie with such a grimy collar and dirty hands, that he was a very un-Sunday-like figure, and she would have sent him away to make himself decent, but that she was desirous of not over-tormenting him.
Sunday was always celebrated by having treacle with the bread, so the butter riot was happily escaped; and Bessie was not in a gracious mood, and the corners of her mouth provoked the boys to begin on what they knew would make her afford them sport. Hal first: “I say, Bet, didn’t Purday want his gun to-day at church?”
Elizabeth put out her lip in expectation that something unpleasant was intended, and other voices were not slow to ask an explanation.
“Shooting the cocky-olly birds!”
A general explosion of laughter.
“I say (always the preface to the boy’s wit), shall I get a jay down off the barn to stick into your hat, Betty?”
“Don’t, Hal,” said such a deplorable offended voice, that Sam, who had really held his tongue at first, could not help chiming in,
“No, no; a cock-sparrow, for her London manners.”
“No, that’s for me, Sam,” said Christabel good-humouredly. “A London-bred sparrow; a pert forward chit.”
She really had found a safety-valve; the boys were entertained, and diverted from their attack on their favourite victim, by finding everyone an appropriate bird; and when they came to “Tomtits” and “Dishwashers,” were so astonished at Miss Fosbrook’s never having seen either, that they instantly fell into the greatest haste to finish their tea, and conduct her into the garden, and through a course of birds, eggs, and nests, about which, as soon as she was assured that there was to be no bird’s-nesting, she was very eager.
Bessie ought to have been thankful that her persecutors were called off, but she was in a dismal mood, and was taken with a fit of displeasure that her own Christabel Angela was following the rabble rout into the garden, instead of staying in the school-room at her service.
The reason of her gloom was, that Miss Fosbrook had spoken a word that she did not choose to take home, and yet which she could not shake off. So she would neither stay in nor go out cheerfully, and sauntered along looking so piteous, that Johnnie could not help making her worse by plucking at her dress, by suddenly twisting her cape round till the back was in front, and pushing her hat over her eyes, till “Don’t Johnnie,” in a dismal whine, alternated with “I’ll tell Miss Fosbrook.”
Christabel did not see nor hear. She had gone forward with a boy on either side of her, and Susan walking backwards in front, all telling the story of a cuckoo,—or gowk, as Sara called it in Purday’s language,—which they had found in a water-wagtail’s nest in a heap of stones; how it sat up, constantly gaping with its huge mouth, while the poor little foster-parents toiled to their utmost to keep it supplied with caterpillars, and the last time it was seen, when full-fledged, were trying to lure it to come out of the nest by holding up green palmers at some little distance before it. This was in the evening; by morning it was gone, having probably taken flight at sunrise.
Miss
