“Well?” I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
“I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn’t think she was likely to die—anyway, I am not provided for! And I don’t know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?”
“Good heavens, no! They don’t want to part with you, I’m sure.”
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: “Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.”
“Hates you?” I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
“Yes. I don’t know why, but she can’t bear me; and he can’t, either.”
“There I know you’re wrong,” I said warmly. “On the contrary, John is very fond of you.”