"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not in the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.
"I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion,"—this he said, looking up to Hetta and smiling,—"I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel."
"I felt that there was something unpleasant."
"And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things."
"I think you are so good,—and so kind." As she said this she leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved him.
"I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you my father confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think that you would understand me better than your mother."
"I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess."
"You will not exact any penance?" She only looked at him and smiled. "I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know nothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general."
"Will that be a penance?"
"If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church?"