"Cynthia," she said gently, "Cynthia, dear, wake up."
The child roused, opened her eyes. "I'm so tired," she murmured. "Will we never be done crossing the wide, wide ocean? And where is Salem?"
"We are there, dear, safe and housed from the storm. You have been asleep on my knee. Come to bed now. Say good-night."
She stood the little girl up on her feet and put one arm around her.
It was against Elizabeth Leverett's theories that any child should go off peaceably, with no snarling protest. Chilian raised his book a little, hoping in the depths of his soul there would be no scene.
"Say good-night."
No child of Puritan training, with the fear of the rod before her eyes, could have done better. She said good-night in a very sleepy tone, and slipped her arm about Rachel's waist as they left the room together.
No one made any comment at first. Then Eunice said, in what she made a casual tone:
"She seems a very tractable child."
"You can't tell by one instance. Children of that age are always self-willed. And allowing a child to lie around one's lap, when she should have said her prayers and gone to bed at the proper hour, is a most reprehensible habit. And I don't suppose she ever says a prayer."