“I don’t know that,” said Richard. “At any rate we meant to do right, and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t tell why you go and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You did not teach him deceit.”
“No, but I concealed it—papa is disappointed, when he thought he could trust me.”
“Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,” said Richard, in his sober tone.
“Self-sufficiency!” exclaimed Margaret, “that has been the root of all! Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always judge rightly.”
“You generally do,” said Richard; “no one else could do half what you do.”
“So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. I have thought it myself, Ritchie.”
“It is true,” said Richard.
“But then,” said Margaret, “I have grown to think much of it, and not like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by myself, and when I said I would not worry papa, it was half because I liked the doing and settling all about the children myself. Oh! if it could have been visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults!”
“Well,” said Richard, “if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and as Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for the best.”
His deliberate common-sense made her laugh a little, and she owned he might be right. “It is a good lesson against my love of being first. But indeed it is difficult—papa can so little bear to be harassed.”