‘It is injustice!’ said Sophy, ‘not hers, perhaps, but of the world! It makes me so angry, to think that you—you should never do anything but wear yourself out in drudging over tiresome little children—’
‘Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had any,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! I always loved them, they make a home wherever they are. I am thankful that my vocation is among them.’
In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice it, but pursued, ‘You must come in and rest—you must have my aunt’s salts.’
‘No—no—’ said Sophy, ‘not there—’ as Genevieve would have taken her to the little parlour, but opening the door of the school-room, she sank breathless into a sitting position on the carpetless boards.
Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found Sophy’s arms thrown round her, pressing her almost to strangulation.
‘Oh! I wanted to do it—I never could wont you have the book, Genevieve? It is my keepsake—only I could not give it because—’
‘Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy?’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! if it is yours—how I shall value it—but it is too beautiful—’
‘Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,’ said Sophy fervently.
‘And it is your gift! But I am frightened—it must have cost—!’ began Genevieve, still a little on her guard. ‘Dear, dear Miss Sophy, forgive me if I do seem ungrateful, but indeed I ought to ask—if—if it is all your own gift?’
‘Mine? yes!’ said Sophy, on the borders of offence. ‘I know what you mean, Genevieve, but you may trust me. I would not take you in.’