She was not sorry that the return to England was deferred by the tenants of the house at Westhaven wanting to stay on; and when at length a Christmas visit was paid at Northmoor, Mite was an animated little personage of three and a quarter, and, except that he could not accomplish a k, perfect in speaking plainly and indeed with that pretty precision of utterance that children sometimes acquire when baby language has not been foolishly fastened. Indeed, his pet name of Mite was only for strictly private use. Except to his nearest relatives, he was always Michael.
Mrs. Morton was delighted with him, and would have liked to make up for her knowledge of Ida’s
suspicions by extra petting, and by discovering resemblances to all the family portraits as well as to his parents, none of which any one else could see. She lived upon thorns lest Ida should burst out with some accusation, but Ida had not the requisite impudence, and indeed, in sight of the boy with his parents, her ‘evidence’ faded into such stuff as dreams are made of.
There was some vexation, indeed, that Louisa the nursery-maid, whom Mrs. Morton had recommended, had had to be dismissed.
‘I am sorry,’ said Mrs. Morton, ‘for, as I told you, her father was the mate aboard the Emma Jane, my poor father’s ship, you know, and went down with poor pa and my poor dear Charlie. And her mother used to char for us, which was but her due.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Mary; ‘Frank and I were both very sorry, and we would have found her another place, but she would go home. You see, we could not keep her in the nursery, for we must have a thoroughly trustworthy person to go out with Michael.’
‘What! Can’t your fine nurse?’
‘Eden? It is her one imperfection. It is some weakness of the spine, and neither she nor I can be about with Michael as long as it is good for him. I thought he must be safe in the garden, but it turned out that Louisa had been taking him down to the village, and there meeting a sailor, who I believe came up in a collier to Colbeam.’
‘Oh, an old friend from Westhaven?’
‘Sam Rattler,’ suggested Ida. ‘Don’t you