Chapter Six.
Sophia Jane posts a Letter, and Susan pays a Visit.
Susan remained awake a long, long time that night listening with strained ears to the subdued noises in the house. She heard Dr Martin come and go away again, his boots creaking softly on each stair; she heard Aunt Hannah’s voice, mysterious and low, wishing him good-night, and after that the shutting of the door. Then a great stillness seemed to fall over everything, and she went to sleep at last.
When she next opened her eyes the darkness was over—here was bright daylight again, and Buskin drawing up her blind. The first words she heard were like part of a dream:
“She’s had a beautiful sleep, and the fever’s taken a turn.”
Susan rubbed her eyes to be quite sure she was awake, and that the good news was true.
“The doctor’s been already this morning,” continued Buskin, coming up to the bedside, “and he says she’ll do now with care.”
Susan had a hundred questions to ask, and her joy and relief were so great that she wanted to pour it all out at once. But this morning Buskin was “herself again,” her soft expression was gone; she was cold and stiff as usual, and would scarcely say more than “yes” and “no” to these eager inquiries. “I shall hear all about it,” said Susan to herself, “at breakfast-time;” and she dressed as quickly as she could and went down-stairs.
She was right, for no one mentioned any other subject throughout the meal. Sophia Jane had been neither liked or valued while she was strong and well, but her illness seemed to have drawn all hearts towards her. And yet she was the same Sophia Jane!
“I never could have believed,” said Aunt Hannah with tears in her eyes, as she put down her tea-cup, “that I should have grown so fond of that child!”
“Poor little darling!” said Nanna.
“I cried my eyes out last night,” added Margaretta, “after Dr Martin had gone.”
“The relief of seeing her fall asleep!” continued Aunt Hannah. “I shall never forget it! It was just two o’clock, and I had sent Buskin to bed. Presently, I thought the child was lying more quietly, and her breathing sounded different. I hardly dared to look at her, but when I did she was sleeping as calmly as a baby, and her forehead quite moist. I shall never forget it!”
“Dear little thing!” repeated Nanna.
“We shall all be very thankful, I’m sure,” said Aunt Hannah looking round the table, “if Sophia Jane gets quite well again.”
“Of course we shall!” exclaimed everyone together.
“And during her illness I have felt that when she was well we were all sometimes too hard upon her faults.”
There was silence.
“Everyone is better for being loved,” pursued Aunt Hannah. “And I fancy no one has ever loved Sophia Jane much in her life. Perhaps this has made her hard and disagreeable. At any rate, I think we might all with advantage be more patient and kind than we have been.”
It seemed difficult to Aunt Hannah to get through this speech, for she stopped very often; and Susan could see that once she was nearly crying. She had been sitting up half the night and was no doubt very tired, but how wonderful it was to hear her speak like that of Sophia Jane! It made her resolve still more firmly than she had yet done, that as soon as ever her companion was well enough she would make full and free confession of her fault.
And this time Sophia Jane seemed to have made up her mind to go straight on and get well, for she improved every day; and though it was only a little way at a time there were no drawbacks. The morning arrived which Susan had long been waiting for, when Aunt Hannah said, “You may see Sophia Jane.” Susan thought that Mary Queen of Scots could not have felt worse when they told her that the block was ready; but she did not flinch. The moment she was alone with Sophia Jane she faltered out her story, and stood before her with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. The little invalid peered curiously out of the frilled white cap she wore. It was one of Aunt Hannah’s adapted to her size, because she complained that her head felt cold, and it gave her such a strangely old witch-like air that it greatly increased Susan’s fear and distress.
“But I thought you said Mademoiselle understood I sent it?”
“So I did,” murmured Susan.
“But that was a story?”
No answer.
“But I thought you were always good?” with a gleam of gratification in her eyes.
“I’m very sorry,” said the culprit.
Sophia Jane paused a moment, then she asked:
“Does Mademoiselle know now?”
“No,” said Susan. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Well!” exclaimed Sophia Jane scornfully, “I should think you might write.”
“So I will,” said Susan earnestly; “and then will you forgive me?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” said Sophia Jane, shaking her head till the frill of her cap trembled. “You see it was so very bad of you.”
“I know,” said Susan humbly. Then venturing to glance at Sophia Jane’s face she was surprised to see a sudden little smile appear, and to hear her exclaim:
“At any rate there’s one thing! They’ll never be able to say again, ‘try to be as good as Susan,’ because you’ve been much naughtier now than I’ve ever been!”
She chuckled softly to herself, and then said—suddenly and sharply:
“Why don’t you write the letter?”
It was not the least part of Susan’s punishment to be treated as a child who could not be trusted. But she bore it patiently, fetched her desk, and wrote the words sternly dictated by Sophia Jane. The latter then requested that she might read the letter, and having done so watched while Susan directed the envelope and put a stamp on it. Then she said:
“Give it me,” and immediately pushed it under her pillow.
“Sha’n’t I post it?” asked Susan humbly.
“Certainly not!” said Sophia Jane decidedly. “That would be a pretty thing indeed!”
Susan felt humbled to the dust, and yet when she left her companion’s room her heart was lighter, and she was really happier than she had been for a long time. She had done what she could to repair her fault, and all the pricks and stabs which Sophia Jane thrust into her were not nearly so hard to bear as the reproaches of her own self. True they were painful, for Susan was a proud child and liked to be well thought of; but after all she was suffering justly. Even if Monsieur and Mademoiselle should always despise her after reading that letter she should deserve it. But, oh, what a pity it was! So the thing next to be dreaded was the meeting with Mademoiselle Delphine, and to see her kindly brown face look cold and displeased. Susan could not help hoping that it would not happen just yet. She did not want to see either her or Monsieur for a long time. She wondered whether Sophia Jane had sent the letter at once, and whether Mademoiselle would write in answer or come herself. She was not, however, kept long in uncertainty about this, for two days after her interview with Sophia Jane there came a note for Aunt Hannah, which she opened at breakfast, saying:
“This is from Mademoiselle Delphine.”
Susan watched her face anxiously, and saw a puzzled expression as she read on.
“She wants to know,” said Aunt Hannah, at last looking up, “if she may come and see Sophia Jane this evening at five o’clock, and says she brings a friend. What friend can she mean?”
“Very strange, indeed!” said Margaretta. “I’ve no objection whatever to Mademoiselle’s seeing the child,” continued Aunt Hannah. “In fact, I think it would interest and amuse her to have a visitor. But the friend! I must say I consider that rather thoughtless and ill-judged. I am always glad to see Monsieur La Roche or his sister—but their friends! That is quite another matter.”
“Quite,” said Nanna and Margaretta both at once.
Susan was at first too occupied with the idea that Mademoiselle was coming that very evening to think about the friend at all, or to wonder whom it could be; she hastened with the news to Sophia Jane, who had now so far improved in strength that she was allowed to sit up a little while every afternoon. She was delighted at the idea of the visit, and at once made a suggestion about the friend which filled Susan with dismay, it was this:
“Perhaps, as she’s so fond of Mrs Jones, she means to bring her.”
What an idea! and yet when Susan thought it over it did not seem unlikely, for Mademoiselle always spoke with great admiration of “Madame Jones” as an acquaintance to be much valued. “A noble-hearted being,” she had called her more than once. Susan wondered what Margaretta and Nanna would think of her if she came. They always talked so much about appearance, and manner, and dress, and if they disapproved of it they said, “rather common.” They would certainly call Madame Jones “rather common,” for they would not understand about her noble heart; and indeed Susan remembered she should not have done so herself without Mademoiselle’s explanation. It was a pity that when people had noble hearts it did not make them look noble outside, and she ended by hoping very much that Madame Jones would not come.
It was between four and five o’clock in the afternoon of the expected visit, and the little girls were alone together. Aunt Hannah had promised that Mademoiselle should have a snug tea with them upstairs if she came alone, so that they were awaiting her arrival with some anxiety. Susan could not help a little secret hope now that she would not be alone, so that the dreaded meeting might be deferred. Sophia Jane had made no further reference to the collar, but Susan felt as much abashed in her presence as any prisoner before his judge, and sometimes found it difficult to talk. She gave a timid look at her; she was in a large arm-chair close to the fire, very much covered up and surrounded by pillows, in the midst of which she looked like a small white mouse in a red-flannel gown. Her features were sharpened by illness, and she still insisted on wearing Aunt Hannah’s cap; but though all this made her more like an old woman than a child, there was to-day a softened light in her blue eyes which Susan noticed at once. She had never seen it there before. She took courage.
“Do you suppose,” she said, glancing at black Dinah, “that Margaretta will let you play with Dinah when you are well?”
“I don’t want to get well,” said Sophia Jane at once.
“Don’t—want—to get—well!” repeated Susan in surprise.
“I shouldn’t mind always being ill,” said Sophia Jane. “Everyone’s kind, no one scolds you; you have nice things to eat, and lemonade. I don’t want to get well.”
“I want you to get well to play with me again,” said Susan. “And I know everybody wants you to get well.”
“Why do they?” asked the invalid.
“Oh, because—of course they do,” was the only reason Susan could give.
“Well,” said Sophia Jane thoughtfully, “of course there’s the trouble of it, and the doctor to pay.”
She wrinkled her brow as she said this, and looked sideways at Susan with her old cunning expression.
“Oh, it isn’t that,” said Susan very earnestly; “why, they’re all dreadfully sorry. That night you were worst, you know, Aunt Hannah cried, and every one, and so did Buskin.”
“I don’t think I should cry if they were ill,” said Sophia Jane after some reflection.
“Well, it shows how fond they are of you, doesn’t it?” remarked Susan.
“Perhaps,” replied Sophia Jane, and after that she was silent for a long time, and Susan stationed herself at the window to watch for Mademoiselle and her friend.
Whenever she saw two people in the distance she cried out, “Here they are!” And this happened so often, and turned out to be not the least like them, that at last it made the invalid quite peevish. So many false alarms, when she could not look out of the window herself, were most distracting.
“You’re not to say it again,” she exclaimed in a weak voice of command, “unless you see them acshally coming in at the gate.”
Susan controlled herself with difficulty, for she was getting very much excited as the time drew near. And now, stepping quickly and neatly along with a large basket on her arm, Mademoiselle’s figure did really appear—alone. Where was the friend? Susan’s heart sank, and her hands grew quite cold. In another minute she must meet Mademoiselle, and then— “She’s coming in at the gate,” she announced to the invalid in a trembling voice; “and she hasn’t brought Mrs Jones or anyone, but only a large basket.”
“You’re sure?” said Sophia Jane in a husky agitated tone; “then look here, quick, before she comes in.”
Susan turned sharply round from the window. Sophia Jane was leaning forward over the grate, with a flush on her white cheeks and her eyes very bright, and in her hand she held, soiled and crumpled, Susan’s letter of confession. The next second it had dropped into the heart of the fire, and as the door opened to admit Mademoiselle a little flame sprang brightly up. And that was how Sophia Jane posted the letter. It was such a sudden thing, and so completely altered the state of affairs that Susan could not at first take it in, or remember that she might now answer Mademoiselle’s greetings without shame. These were most affectionate and cheerful, and she presently seated herself close to Sophia Jane’s arm-chair with her basket on her knees, and untied her bonnet-strings.
“Madame, your aunt, is so kind to ask me to take tea with you,” she said, “and I have taken the liberty to bring also a Monsieur who is anxious to make his compliments to Miss Sophia.”
“Is he down-stairs?” asked Sophia Jane.
“Mais non,” said Mademoiselle with a little burst of laughter; “he is here, in this room, and waits to make himself known.”
She opened the lid of the basket a very little way and peeped in.
“It’s Gambetta!” exclaimed Sophia Jane, in a voice hoarse with excitement; “that’s what you meant by a friend.”
There was the tiny tinkle of a bell. Mademoiselle opened the basket wide, and there indeed was Gambetta in all the dignity of the new collar.
Nothing could exceed Sophia Jane’s delight as she clasped her hands in an ecstasy and laughed aloud. “Doesn’t he look nice in it?” she said. Mademoiselle smiled and nodded in return; everyone looked pleased except Gambetta himself, who held his neck stiffly as though he said, “Pride must suffer pain.”
Susan stood a little behind the group while this was going on; now she came in front of Mademoiselle and caressed Gambetta’s soft furry neck.
“It’s Sophia Jane’s present,” she said, “not mine. She sent it to Monsieur for him.”
Mademoiselle looked puzzled.
“It was got with Susan’s half-crown,” added Sophia Jane quickly, “so it’s from both of us.”
“Ah, that is very amiable of you both,” said Mademoiselle. “Gambetta has both the two of you to thank—and Adolphe also; that is very agreeable.”
And so the event which Susan had thought of and dreaded so much passed with this slight remark. The confession had been made, and her mind was clear again, and free. Free to laugh, and talk, and look people straight in the face, and be her old happy self. But there was one thing she never forgot, and that was Sophia Jane’s generosity. By burning that letter she had gained not only Susan’s affection but her respect; she should never look down upon her again.
Meanwhile Gambetta became restive, and, in spite of all his mistress’s entreaties, broke away from her, and refused to settle down till he had made a thorough examination of the room. He jumped on to the table, smelt all the chairs, looked suspiciously behind the chest of drawers, and walked gingerly in his high furry boots amongst Sophia Jane’s medicine bottles. His every movement was watched and admired, and by the time Buskin brought in tea he had finished his inquiries and drawn near the group by the fire. Then, after one thoughtful glance round, he chose Sophia Jane’s position as being the warmest, softly leapt on to her lap, and snuggled himself among her shawls, In this situation he presently began a purring song of comfort, in which he was joined by the tea-kettle. Sophia Jane’s satisfaction was now complete. Mademoiselle Delphine’s face beamed, and Susan, pouring out tea with Aunt Hannah’s best pink set, felt almost too happy for words. Probably few rooms held four happier creatures that evening.
It was pleasant to see how Mademoiselle enjoyed herself; how she said, “Excellente!” to the tea, and water-cresses, and muffins, and how she coaxed Sophia Jane to eat, and made her laugh. She was one of those fortunate people who pick up pleasures everywhere, and find amusement in the most common things of life. After tea she told them stories. Interesting details about Paris, and Adolphe, and their journey to England with poor Gambetta in a basket, and all this made the time pass so quickly, that when the clock struck seven everyone was startled. Mademoiselle herself sprang up at once with a little shriek. She had promised to meet Adolphe at a certain point on her way home, and he would without doubt be waiting for her. Gambetta, therefore, was hustled into his basket before he had time to resist, and Mademoiselle, having embraced her little friends heartily, was soon on her way.
The two little girls were silent for a minute after she had gone. Sophia Jane, languid after such unusual excitement, stared absently at the fire, and Susan, not yet quite at her ease, did not like to speak first. But when Buskin entered it seemed to give her courage, and she said:
“Haven’t we had a nice tea-party?”
“Yes,” answered Sophia Jane; and added thoughtfully, “it’s very nice to be ill.”
“But I want you to get well,” said Susan. “You can’t think how dull it is down-stairs without you.”
Buskin would not allow any further conversation, and Susan had to say good-night and go away. As she kissed her friend’s tiny befrilled face, she felt for the first time really fond of her, and grateful also. She had made the discovery lately that you could not judge people by their outsides, or even by what others said of them. Under her cross, crabbed manner Sophia Jane had hidden a grateful heart, which had answered to the first touch of kindness; and disguised by sharp and shrewish words, she had shown a really generous and forgiving spirit. Like Madame Jones, it appeared that she had a noble heart.
The next day was one of some excitement to Susan, for it had been arranged that she was to spend it with some friends of Margaretta and Nanna who lived at Ramsgate. Their name was Winslow. It was not altogether a pleasant prospect, for she had never been there before, and she had very little hope that she should find them agreeable. Not that she knew anything against them; on the contrary, their name was never uttered without words of admiration, and if Nanna or Margaretta wished to bestow high approval on anything, they always said it was like something the Winslows had. It appeared, indeed, that these friends were much favoured by fortune. Their house was the pleasantest, their horses the best, their taste the most excellent, their children the prettiest and most clever. It was this last point which had specially interested Sophia Jane and Susan, and they had gradually come to dislike the little Winslows, though they knew nothing of them but their names and appearance. Whenever Nanna or Margaretta returned from seeing these friends they were brimful of admiration at the excellent conduct and talent of the children, and did not fail to draw unfavourable contrasts. They described their dresses, repeated their speeches, and gave many instances of their polite behaviour and obedience to rules. Little Eva, who was not so old as Susan, could already play “The Harmonious Blacksmith” without a mistake. Dear Julia, who was Sophia Jane’s exact age, danced the minuet with the utmost elegance, and always held herself upright. As for darling Lucy, she spoke French with ease, and had begged to be allowed to begin German.
Although they had never spoken to these wonderful children, the little girls had often met them out of doors walking with their governess, and had long ago made up their minds about them.
They thought them prim and dull-looking, and found something annoying in their neatly-dressed little figures, and the perfect propriety with which they stepped along, holding their small round heads rather high. They imagined, too, that they had seen them cast glances of surprise and disdain on Sophia Jane’s clothes, which were often shabby, and never becoming. They agreed, therefore, in considering them disagreeable children, and were by no means anxious for their acquaintance.
Remembering all this, Susan felt there was no chance at all that she should enjoy herself, and she did not get much comfort from Sophia Jane, when she went to say good-bye.
“I’m glad I’m not going,” she said. “I know I should hate ’em. You know we always have.”
“Perhaps they’ll be nicer in-doors,” said Susan, though she did not think it probable.
“I believe they’re all horrid, every one of ’em,” said Sophia Jane decidedly, “in-doors and out, and I’m glad I’m not going.”
“It wouldn’t be quite so bad if you were,” said Susan with a sigh, “because we could talk about it afterwards. But I must go; there’s Margaretta calling me.”
“I hope, Susan,” said Margaretta, as they walked along the parade together, “that you will remember to behave very nicely, and answer properly when Mrs Winslow speaks to you. Don’t blush and look shy. The little Winslows never look silly, and I have never seen them blush.”
“Are you fond of Mrs Winslow?” asked Susan. “She’s very kind,” answered Margaretta, “and very clever. She knows a great deal about education.”
Susan asked no more questions, and in a quarter of an hour they arrived at the house which was large and tall, with green balconies, and a great many windows. Part of it faced the sea, and part of it went round the corner into a street, and it all looked, inside and out, so bright and clean and new that it was quite dazzling. Susan thought she had never seen a house where everything shone so much, and there was so much light. Not a shadow, not a dark corner anywhere, and all the furniture was polished so highly that she saw herself and Margaretta reflected a dozen times as they moved along. When they reached the drawing-room it was still more confusing, for there were so many mirrors, and windows, and statuettes under glass cases, that the brilliancy almost brought tears to her eyes, it was such a contrast to the dimness of Aunt Hannah’s low ceilings and small rooms. Wherever she turned her head, too, another Susan stared at her, and this made her feel shy and uncomfortable.
“Isn’t it a beautiful room?” said Margaretta, seating herself on a pompous yellow sofa. “So cheerful!”
Before Susan could answer, Mrs Winslow came in. She was a fair lady with a very straight nose, and she welcomed them kindly, and asked after Sophia Jane.
“My little people,” she continued, scarcely waiting, Susan noticed, for Margaretta’s answer, “are just returning from their walk. Air and light are as necessary to the young as to flowers, are they not? How can we expect their minds to expand unless the body is healthy?”
“No, indeed,” said Margaretta.
Mrs Winslow then proposed that they should go and take off their hats, which being done she led the way down-stairs into the dining-room, where the “little people” were already assembled with their governess for their early dinner. During this Susan had plenty of time for observation, and she soon decided that she should have to tell Sophia Jane that they were not nicer in-doors than out. They were wonderfully alike: all had little straight noses, fair complexions, and pale blue eyes, and when they spoke they said all their words very distinctly, and never cut any of them short. They were very polite to Susan.
“I encourage conversation with my children during meal-time, on principle,” said Mrs Winslow. “How can you expect them to acquire right habits of speaking if silence is imposed?”
“No, indeed,” said Margaretta again.
“The force of habit,” continued Mrs Winslow, putting down her knife and fork, and looking from Margaretta to Miss Pink, the governess, “has never, it seems to me, been sufficiently considered in education. It in a giant power. It rests with us to turn it this way or that, to give it a right or a wrong direction, to use it for good or for evil. I say to my children, for instance, ‘always think before you act, in the smallest as well as the greatest things.’ By degrees I thus form in them habits of steadiness, thoughtfulness, calmness, which will not desert them when called upon to act in moments of danger and difficulty. ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it’—nay more, he cannot depart from it.”
It was quite by chance as Mrs Winslow said these last words that her eyes rested on Susan, who had been staring at her all the while she had been speaking, and who now felt that an answer of some kind was expected. She had none to give, however, for she had not been listening at all to what had been said, her mind being filled with wonder and awe at Mrs Winslow, who talked as though she were reading aloud. She only blushed, therefore, and immediately became aware that three pairs of pale blue eyes were fastened upon her from the other side of the table. The little Winslows never blushed, Margaretta had said, and of course they thought her very silly. She longed for the meal to be over, and the visit also. Why, she wondered, were Margaretta and Nanna so fond of coming here? Margaretta did not look as if she were enjoying herself much. She was sitting in a stiff position, with her head a little on one side, watching every glance of Mrs Winslow’s, so that she might say, “yes, indeed,” or “quite so,” or “exactly,” in the right place. Her voice did not sound like the voice she had at Aunt Hannah’s, but smaller, and she said her words mincingly. Susan felt sure she was not enjoying herself. Why did she come?
Presently the conversation became more interesting, and Susan now listened to it with some anxiety, for Mrs Winslow was making arrangements for the afternoon, and she hoped to hear of an early return to Belmont Cottage. She did not want to see any more of the little Winslows, and quite longed to get back to Sophia Jane and tell her all about them. It was disappointing, therefore, to hear it decided that Margaretta should drive out with Mrs Winslow, who would leave her at Aunt Hannah’s, and that Susan should walk back later with Miss Pink and the little people. Margaretta was almost to be envied. Perhaps it was because she liked driving in a carriage with a pair of swift horses that she liked coming here. And yet Mrs Winslow’s presence would spoil anything, Susan thought. If she went on talking like that, and Margaretta had to sit up and listen to her and make little remarks, the drive would not be worth having; it could not be much worse to walk home with the little Winslows.
After dinner the little girls took their visitor into the schoolroom, where they were to amuse themselves until it was time to start for their walk. It was a large bright room like all the others in the house; but this cheerfulness did not seem to have affected the Winslows themselves. They were quiet children, always good and obedient, but rather dull. They did not seem to understand games, and seldom laughed. How very different they were to Sophia Jane! Certainly she was not nearly so well behaved, but then she was a far more amusing companion. The afternoon seemed endless.
“Don’t you ever play with dolls?” Susan asked at last.
“No,” answered Lucy the eldest, “we are too old. Eva has one, but we put away our dolls on my last birthday.”
“What do you play at?” inquired Susan.
“We haven’t much time to play,” replied Lucy seriously, “because we belong to so many things.”
“What things?”
“There’s the ‘Early Rising Society,’ and the ‘Half-hour Needlework for the East-End Society,’ and the ‘Reading Society,’ and the ‘Zenana Meetings;’ and we’re all ‘Young Abstainers.’”
“What’s that?” asked Susan.
“It’s the children’s temperance society. We pledge ourselves not to take alcohol, and to prevent others from taking it if we can. There’s a meeting once a month. It’s our turn next time to have it here.”
“What do you do when you meet?” inquired Susan.
“Some of us work,” said Lucy, “and someone reads aloud.”
“And then,” added little Eva, “we have tea.”
There was a faint look of satisfaction on Eva’s face as she said this.
“Eva thinks tea is the best part of all,” said Julia, the next sister, rather scornfully.
“Well,” said Susan, “I expect I should too, because I’m not fond of needlework. Unless,” she added, “the book was very interesting to listen to.”
“Sometimes it is,” said Julia, “and sometimes it isn’t. Are you fond of reading?”
“Some books,” answered Susan.
“If you belonged to the Reading Society,” put in Lucy, “you’d have to read an improving book for half an hour every day, and perhaps at the end of the year you’d get a prize.”
“I suppose you mean an uninteresting book like a lesson book,” said Susan. “I shouldn’t like that.”
“Well, of course, it mustn’t be a story-book,” said Julia.
“Would the Pilgrim’s Progress do?” asked Susan.
The little girls looked doubtfully at each other. “I’m not sure,” said Lucy, “whether that that would be considered an improving book.”
Susan proceeded to make more inquiries about the various societies, but she did not think any of them sounded attractive, and certainly had no wish to join the little Winslows in belonging to them. This filled up the time until four o’clock, when, with Miss Pink, they all set out on their walk to Belmont Cottage. Susan was surprised to see that each little girl was provided with a hoop, which was the nearest approach to a toy of any kind that she had observed during her visit.
“We always take hoops out in the afternoon until the month of May,” explained Lucy. “Mother considers the exercise healthy.”
It was such a relief to Susan to feel that the visit was over, and that she was really going back, that she could not walk quite soberly with Miss Pink, but danced along the parade by little Eva’s side as she bowled her hoop, and was almost inclined to sing aloud with pleasure. There were a great many people about, and quite a crowd of carriages, and soon in the distance they saw Mrs Winslow’s black horses approaching. She had left Margaretta at Belmont Cottage, and was now returning. Just as the carriage passed, Eva, who was staring at her mother, gave her hoop a blow which sent it in the wrong direction, and it trundled out into the middle of the road, almost under the horses’ feet. Not quite, however, for Susan, who was watching it, sprang after it and caught it away just in time. Mrs Winslow nodded and smiled at the children, the carriage drove on, and Susan carried the hoop back to the path where the little Winslows were drawn up in a row with very serious faces.
“You might have been run over,” said Lucy gravely.
“I didn’t think about it,” said Susan.
“Mother says,” continued Lucy, “Always think before you act.”
“My dear,” interrupted Miss Pink hastily, “Susan has done very well. There are exceptions to every rule.”
When Susan reached home she found Sophia Jane still sitting up, and eager to hear all the news about the visit. She at once inquired if the Winslows were “horrid;” but Susan would not quite say that. “They were very kind to her and very good, but—” she added, “I haven’t enjoyed myself a bit, and I never want to go there again or see them any more.”
“I told you so,” said Sophia Jane, and she gave herself a hug of satisfaction.