‘Patience in seven flounces on a monument!’ observed Mr. Fotheringham, in an undertone to Theodora, who started, and would have been angry, but for his merry smile. He then turned to the child, whose face was indeed stupefied with sullenness, as if in the resistance she had forgotten the original cause. ‘What! you have not said it all this time? What’s your name? I know you are a Benson, but how do they call you?’ said he, speaking with a touch of the dialect of the village, just enough to show he was a native.
‘Ellen,’ said the girl.
‘Ellen! that was your aunt’s name. You are so like her. I don’t think you can be such a very stupid child, after all. Are you? Suppose you try again. What is it Miss Martindale wants you to say?’
The child made no answer, and Theodora said, ‘The Little Busy Bee.’
‘Oh! that’s it. Not able to say the Busy Bee? That’s a sad story. D’ye think now I could say it, Ellen?’
‘No!’ with an astonished look, and a stolid countrified tone.
‘So you don’t think I’m clever enough! Well, suppose I try, and you set me right if I make mistakes. “How doth the great idle wasp—“’
‘Busy bee!’ cried the child, scandalized.
By wonderful blunders, and ingenious halts, he drew her into prompting him throughout, then exclaimed, ‘There! you know it much better. I thought you were a clever little girl! Come, won’t you say it once, and let me hear how well it sounds?’
She was actually flattered into repeating it perfectly.