“Dorothy is in a sulky fit again, mother; I wish she wouldn’t!”
Elsie, who has her father’s quick temper, was in the room.
“You naughty ungrateful little boy, you! How can you say such a thing of Dorothy? Didn’t she sit all yesterday morning making sails for your boat?”
Georgie, a little mollified, “Yes, but why need she be sulky to-day? We all loved her yesterday, and I’m sure I want to to-day!”
Now that the mask was fallen and even the children could see what was amiss, I felt that the task before me must not be put off. I had had great misgivings since the first exhibition of Dorothy’s sullen temper; now I saw what must be done, and braced myself for a heavy task. But I could not act alone; I must take my husband into my confidence, and that was the worst of it.
“George, how do you account for Dorothy’s fits of wretchedness?”
“Why, my dear, haven’t I told you? The child is out of sorts, and must have change. We’ll have a little trip up the Rhine, and perhaps into Switzerland, so soon as the weather is fit. It will be worth something to see her face light up at some things I mean to show her!”
“I doubt if there is anything the matter with her health; remember how perfectly well and happy she is between these fits of depression.”
“What is it, then? You don’t think she’s in love, do you?”
“Not a bit of it; her heart is untouched, and her dearest loves are home loves.”