She welcomed Delia kindly, but with the repressed air of severity which she always reserved for her.
“How like your dear mother!” she exclaimed, on receiving the pot of jelly.—“Yes; my cough is a little better, tell her, but I thought I would keep indoors to-day—and, you see, I’ve all these books to get through, so it’s just as well. Mr Field got them in London for the library the other day.”
“What a pity they must be covered,” said Delia, glancing from one pile to the other; “the children would like the bright colours so much better.”
“A nice state they would be in, in a week,” said Mrs Winn, stolidly, as she folded, and snipped, and turned a book about in her large, capable hands. “Besides, it’s better to teach the children not to care for pretty things.”
“Is it?” said Delia. “I should have thought that was just what they ought to learn.”
“The love of pretty things,” said Mrs Winn, sternly, “is like the love of money, the root of all evil; and has led quite as many people astray.—All these books have to be labelled and numbered,” she added, after a pause. “You might do some, Delia, if you’re not in a hurry.”
“Oh, but I am,” said Delia, glancing at the clock. “I am going to Mr Goodwin for a lesson, and I am late already.”
Mrs Winn had, however, some information to give about Mr Goodwin. Julia Gibbins, who had just looked in, had met him on the way to give a lesson at Pynes.
“So,” she added, “he can’t possibly be home for another half-hour at least, you know; and you may just as well spend the time in doing something useful.”
With a little sigh of disappointment, Delia took off her gloves and seated herself opposite to Mrs Winn. Everything seemed against her to-day.