Your little hands were never made
To tear each other’s eyes!’
What were they made for, hey?”
Both gave me a quick look, but seemed at fault.
“Why, to work, and to write, and to draw, and to paint pictures, and hold knives and forks, and spoons, and slices of plum-cake, and to give pence and sixpences to poor people, and a thousand other good and pleasant things. Will you remember?”
Both smiled, and said “Yes;” and then I produced slices of the iced plum-cake Harry Prout had cut up, and told them to hand the plate first to Mademoiselle and Arbell, and then to help themselves. This produced general good humour and sociability, and, after the cake had been duly honoured, Mademoiselle rose to take leave, saying she feared they had stayed too long, but that it was so difficult to get away from me, I so charmingly blended instruction with entertainment, &c. &c. &c., which I might have liked better if I had not thought it rather exaggerated and insincere.
I said to Arbell at parting, “I have seen and heard too little of you. What a treat it would be if you would spend a morning with me, and help me to make this picture-book.”
Her face brightened directly, and she exclaimed, “Ah! I only wish I might!” But Mademoiselle interposed with something about Mrs. Pevensey’s wish that the school-room routine should suffer no interruption, with a little smile and shrug to me, as much as to say, “So, of course, we must obey;” and Arbell went away, looking as rigid and uncomfortable as at first, carrying Shock under her arm.