When Kate opened her eyes again, and turned her face up from the pillow, she saw the drops on the window shining in the sun, and Lady de la Poer, with her bonnet off, reading under it.
All that had happened began to return on Kate’s brain in a funny medley; and the first thing she exclaimed was, “Oh! those poor little fishes, how I must have frightened them!”
“My dear!”
“Do you think I did much mischief?” said Kate, raising herself on her arm. “I am sure the fishes must have been frightened, and the water-lilies broken. Oh! you can’t think how nasty their great coiling stems were—just like snakes! But those pretty blue and pink flowers! Did it hurt them much, do you think—or the fish?”
“I should think the fish had recovered the shock,” said Lady de la Poer, smiling; “but as to the lilies, I should be glad to be sure you had done yourself as little harm as you have to them.”
“Oh no,” said Kate, “I’m not hurt—if Aunt Barbara won’t be terribly angry. Now I wouldn’t mind that, only that I’ve spoilt Addie’s birthday, and all your day. Please, I’m very sorry!”
She said this so sadly and earnestly, that Lady de la Poer came and gave her a kind hiss of forgiveness, and said:
“Never mind, the girls are very happy with their father, and the rest is good for me.”
Kate thought this very comfortable and kind, and clung to the kind hand gratefully; but though it was a fine occasion for one of the speeches she could have composed in private, all that came out of her mouth was, “How horrid it is—the way everything turns out with me!”
“Nay, things need not turn out horrid, if a certain little girl would keep herself from being silly.”