"I knew it—I was sure of it," cried the girl, with quick tears in her eyes. "It will kill her—she will pine away like her mother. You know she will, Miss Hyde."
"I'm afraid so, Lottie."
"Afraid, and stand by doing nothing but bathe her head with cologne, and cry over her. That isn't the way to cure all this, Miss Hyde."
"But what else can I do, Lottie?"
"You? Nothing."
She went off to a flower-bed, tore some mignonette up by the roots, tossed it from her, and came back again.
"Miss Hyde, I am tired to death of all this. The house isn't fit to live in since my dear, sweet lady was taken from it. There's been nothing but sickness, and quarrelling, and going away since, and I've about made up my mind to go away too. I can't stand it, and I won't, so there!"
"Why, Lottie," I cried, lost in astonishment, "what does this mean?"
"It means that I'm tired of doing nothing—of being slighted, and made of no account. It means that I want to see the world, and know a thing or two about life. You and Miss Jessie just mope about like sick kittens; and as for the servants—well, I don't belong in that crew, anyhow—but they are getting worse and worse. The long and the short of it all is, I have made up my mind to go away right off, and do something worth while. I only wish you would ask Miss Jessie to settle up with me now, right on the nail, for I'm in an awful hurry to get off."
Settle up! I should have been less astonished if the house-dog had made a sudden claim for wages. Lottie had always been considered as a child of the establishment, to be cared for and petted beyond all idea of payment. She had never seemed to care for money, nor know how to use it. But while enjoying her life in a state of luxurious ease, almost equalling that of her young mistress, she descended upon us with a rough demand for wages—wages from the time she entered the house, a mere child, up to that very day—no inconsiderable sum, according to her own estimate.