"Set the box down on the step. Give me a kiss, Hetty. Dear heart! Do try to do well here. Mind, if you don't, even I must allow that it is your own fault, and you'll never be worth anything if you don't take hold now and mind what you're about. You've got all your senses like other girls, and it is high time you began to use them."
"I do try, Matty. I never mean to do wrong. But somehow I do forget things so easily."
"Because you don't try to keep your mind fixed on what you're doing, and so you're at the mercy of every little thing that happens. Just heedless—that's about it, Hetty dear. Do you ever pray to be made heedful?"
"Oh, Matty! I'd never think of asking such a thing. I pray to be made good, and holy, and kept from saying bad words, like Emma Simmons, or stealing, like—"
"Now listen, Hetty. You've no temptations to do those things, thanks to your good, careful mother. It's just as if a railway man in the station down yonder should pray that he might not be drowned, when there is not so much as a pond in the place big enough to hold him, and never give a thought to the real dangers he lives among. You pray for what you really want, Hetty. That kind of prayer is only words. Promise me you will, dear—quick! For I must ring now."
"I'll try. Oh, Matty, whatever shall I do without you? I wish—"
But the door opened, and the figure of an ancient dame, who spent her mornings in doing Mrs. Eyre's rough work, appeared before them.
"So here's our new nursemaid," said she, laughing at Hetty's dolorous face. "Which of you is coming here?"
"This is Hetty," said the elder sister.
"Ah, I wish it was you," was the reply.