"I can't understand father," exclaimed I, hastily. "He seems to me to take much more interest in plans for saving pauper children than he does in working his own land."
"Oh, Margaret! how can you say such a thing?" cried Joyce, aghast. "You know that father is often laid by, and unable to go round the farm."
"Yes, yes, I know," I hastened to answer, ashamed of my outburst, and remembering that I was flatly contradicting what I had said two minutes before. "Nobody really has the interest in the place that father has, of course. That's why I don't want him to take a paid bailiff. When he is laid by he can manage it through me."
"I'm afraid that never answers," said Joyce, shaking her head; "I'm afraid business matters need a man. People always seem to take advantage of a woman."
I tried to laugh. "I wonder what Deborah would say to that?" I said, trying to turn the matter into a joke.
"Deborah doesn't attempt anything out of her own province," answered Joyce.
It was another of her quiet home-thrusts. She little guessed how they hurt, or she would never have dealt them—she who could not bear to hurt a fly.
"Margaret," began she again, her mind still set on that conciliatory project which she had undertaken, "do promise me one thing before I go. I don't like going away, and it makes me worse to think you will be working yourself up into a fever of annoyance at what can't be helped. Do promise me that you won't begin by being set against the young man. It'll make it very uncomfortable for everybody if you are, and you won't be any the happier. You can be so nice when you like."
I looked at her, surprised. It was so very rarely that Joyce came out of her shell to take this kind of line. It showed it must have been working in her mind for long.
"Yes, dear, yes," said I, really touched by her anxiety, "I'll try and be nice."