Her most ardent wish now—a wish which had grown stronger every day of the three weeks—was to be trusted sometimes to take care of little Ivy. She was always thinking about this. She wanted to be allowed really to help with the child; to tie and untie her strings, to button and unbutton her clothes; to amuse her; to keep her happy; to be a "little mother" to Ivy. It was Aunt Anne who had put this last idea into Hecla's head.
She had remarked, "Poor little Ivy will miss her dear mother so much! We shall have to try our best to make up to her for that great loss!"
And then Hecla began to wonder if she could not act the part of a sort of imitation-mother to Ivy.
It was in her busy little head that she would be so good, so sensible, so careful, so unforgetful, that her aunts would feel sure they might trust Ivy with her anywhere, out in the garden as well as indoors, and even perhaps—wouldn't that be grand?—on the road as far as the Vicarage, which really was only a few minutes away. What fun—if she might be allowed sometimes to trot little Ivy round there, and to have games with Chris in the nice Vicarage garden!
She thought and thought this over, in her funny absent fashion, during the three weeks. And while she was planning hard about all that she meant to be and to do in the future, her mind was quite away from present duties, and more than ever she forgot all sorts of things which she ought to have attended to each day.
Elisabeth was not going away. At first Miss Storey said that this would have to be. She felt that she ought to find an older servant to look after Ivy.
But everybody was unhappy at the thought. Elisabeth was such a nice girl, so true and honest and careful and dependable and conscientious—really, the number of virtues which had to be tacked to her name was quite astonishing, when one came to count them over.
Miss Storey first spoke to Elisabeth about parting with her, three or four days after it was settled that Ivy would come; and Elisabeth simply cried and cried until her eyes nearly disappeared. And Hecla cried, and Miss Anne cried, and the household generally became so appallingly tearful, that poor Miss Storey, who cried as much as anybody, was quite at her wits' end, and didn't know which way to turn.
Then old Mrs. Prue, who never cried, but showed her feelings by getting fearfully cross and scolding everybody all round—even her mistresses, and they always took it meekly, because they said it was just dear old faithful Prue's way, and they supposed she wasn't feeling very well, and ought to take a tonic—old Mrs. Prue made a suggestion.
She said she couldn't for the life of her see why in the world Elisabeth shouldn't stay on, and take care of Miss Ivy. For her part, she'd sooner have Elisabeth than a dozen of them giddy flaunting girls, going about with red feathers in their hats and gaudy blue silk blouses as was a disgrace to the parents that had brought them up. And Elisabeth, if she was young, had got a head on her shoulders, and was used to children in her own home; and she'd be willing to learn, which was more than could be said for that other sort of girl; and if help was wanted, why, she herself would be ready enough to lend a hand.