Beside all this, she developed a grumbling and discontented temper, which might or might not have belonged to her in earlier days. It did not come to light until more than three months after her marriage. During those three months all had been smooth, and the girls were growing fond of their stepmother. Plunkett congratulated himself on the step he had taken; friends and neighbours said what a good arrangement it was. Then came the alteration in her, which altered the home, and cast a shadow on the lives of those who lived with her. One ill-temper in a house is quite enough to mar the happiness of the whole family.
Plunkett, reaching the kitchen, where pots and pans, plates and cloths, lay about in a haphazard fashion, dropped or rather plumped down on a chair, and stuck out his two legs in front of him.
"Now, then! Look sharp! I've got no time to lose."
Mrs. Plunkett slowly poked up the decaying fire, and placed a kettle thereon. Her husband watched with attentive eyes, which could never be otherwise than good-humoured, whatever tone of voice he chose to speak in.
"Now, then! What's that kettle for?"
"I thought you'd like a cup of tea, as I haven't got—"
"Cup o' tea, when I'm famished for want o' some'at substantial. I like that, I do! I'm to work like a slave, and have a cup o' tea to keep me going. Here's Marigold and Narcissus. Nice state o' things, ain't it, girls? Here am I come home to dinner, and not a scrap o' victuals for me to eat."
"Why, it's father," said Marigold.
She looked about seventeen years old, perhaps eighteen, and was not remarkably pretty; but what of that? Most people are more or less pretty in the eyes of those who love them; and as for those who do not, it matters little. Some girls think a great deal of having strangers say, "What a pretty face!" But when the stranger has said the words, and has passed on, forgetting, what has the pretty face gained?
If Marigold were not strictly pretty, except as seen by loving eyes, she was not without her charms. She had a neat figure, and rounded rosy cheeks, and her brown hair was smooth as satin, and when her light grey eyes smiled, they were full of sweetness. The mother's tidiness had descended in full measure upon her eldest daughter. Everything about Marigold seemed to have just come out of a band-box.