“Oh, have pity on my crockery, Robin!” exclaimed Alicia; “I cannot replace it here.”
“I am very sorry that I have done mischief,” said Robin, as he picked up the broken pieces. “It is not your fault that you have such a cousin, nor Miranda’s that she has such a brother.”
The sound of the name which she had been taught to recognize as her own increased the uneasiness of poor Premi. The letter which had made her bhai so very angry certainly related to herself. A vague fear that suttees might be thought the correct thing in England, and that her white brother might wish to burn her alive, flitted across the poor girl’s mind; however, she was somewhat reassured by the smile on the lips of Alicia.
“It seems as if we should never get to the end of this letter,” said Harold, taking the paper from the hand of his wife. “Where were we—oh, here;” and he went on with the reading aloud:—
“Or you might make a missionary of her, perhaps. I leave all arrangements to you; I am sure that the best will be made for the poor little waif by you and your husband.”
“He wants to wash his hands of the care of his own, his only sister,” muttered Robin. “This Gilbert is unworthy of the name of a brother!”
Alicia caught sight of the look of anxious, almost agonizing inquiry in the eyes of Miranda, and hastened to relieve her at once.
“We have heard from your brother in England,” she said in reply to the mute appeal.
Miranda flushed and visibly trembled; her lips moved, but uttered no sound.
“Your white brother wishes you to remain with us in India.”