“You don’t know him, child. Of course you don’t. How should you? He always had a smooth side to show when it pleased him. But see how he treats us now.”
“He will write some day,” murmured Maimie.
“I don’t say he won’t; but that isn’t the question. Why hasn’t he written already?”
Maimie could make no answer. She seemed a good deal upset, and I saw Cherry pass by, giving her a loving little squeeze of the hand.
“Worthless people are not worth crying over, child. It’s Churton all over, that’s all one can say.”
She then dropped the subject, and the two girls went away to prepare tea. Robert came in, followed by Jack, and Aunt Briscoe said—
“That girl looks frightfully delicate.”
“She has been ill lately,” I said.
“She will be ill again soon, if you don’t take care—fall into a decline, or something of that sort. You had better let me take her home for a week.”
Somehow I did not feel inclined to spring at the idea. There had been a time when I thought Aunt Briscoe ought to take in Maimie altogether. Now she was one of us, and I did not want to lose her. But my husband thanked Aunt Briscoe, and said it was the very thing Maimie needed, and I woke up suddenly to my own selfishness. Had I not been longing to give Maimie change? Well, here was change provided.