“Only let me show her. I can’t bear to hear her, listen, Mary.
“What shall one of us
That struck the foremost”—
“That is declaiming,” said Miss Winter. “It is not what we wish for in a lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering.”
Ethel made a fretful contortion, and obeyed. So it went on all the morning, Ethel’s eagerness checked by Miss Winter’s dry manner, producing pettishness, till Ethel, in a state between self-reproach and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner, and to visit Margaret on the way.
She found her sister picking a merino frock to pieces. “See here,” she said eagerly, “I thought you would like to make up this old frock for one of the Cocksmoor children; but what is the matter?” as Ethel did not show the lively interest that she expected.
“Oh, nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome.”
“What was it?”
“Everything, it was all horrid. I was cross, I know, but she and M. Ballompre made me so;” and Ethel was in the midst of the narration of her grievances, when Norman came in. The school was half a mile off, but he had not once failed to come home, in the interval allowed for play after dinner, to inquire for his sister.
“Well, Norman, you are out of breath, sit down and rest. What is doing at school; are you dux of your class?”
“Yes,” said the boy wearily.