“Father was always telling me that he was 'hard up,’” remarked Maimie. “But somehow we always had what we wanted.”
It sounded very like Churton Hazel again.
“But your stepfather had not seven children to provide for,” said my husband. “That makes a great difference. We are able to get very few things that we want.”
“Seven children!” repeated Maimie. “And while I am here it will be eight. But, Uncle Robert, my father will send money, of course. He said he would.”
“He has not even written yet,” I observed.
“Father can’t bear writing letters,” said Maimie. “He always puts off doing things that give him trouble. But he really did mean to write, and he soon will.”
My private belief was that Churton Hazel had really meant to do nothing of the kind.
“He ought not to have waited,” said Robert. “It was treating us wrongly.”
“Yes; I suppose so,” Maimie admitted reluctantly. “Only he does so hate writing. If you only knew how he hates it! Perhaps you will hear to-morrow—or next week.”
“I doubt it very much,” I said.