There was a passion in her tone, which Lady Haredale felt.
“No,” she said. “You shall have him! How like you are to poor pretty Blanche; you shan’t be talked out of your lover as she was. I’ll not have it on my conscience. But does the child think she knows her own mind?”
Amethyst felt indescribably jarred and hurt by her mothers manner. Her cheeks burnt and her eyes were bright, as she answered with equal straightforwardness, and with unexpected passion—
“I should have liked to be a beauty, and have a success; I know I should like it. But that’s all nothing, compared—compared to him,” as the tears came in floods, and she hid her face.
“Ah!” said Lady Haredale.—“Poor little girl, it’s a shame to tease her! You are a good child, my pretty Amethyst, and you shall stay good, if you can. Come, kiss me and forgive me, and you shall have your way.” Amethyst threw herself into her mother’s arms, and, in clinging kisses, soon forgot her vexation. “Mother was right to make sure;” and she only felt that she had the kindest and tenderest mother ever known, and the most sympathetic. For Lady Haredale, with a sudden change of tone, began to question her, and listened to the little idyll with as fresh and eager an interest as if she had been Amethyst’s sister or school friend.
“My darling, its lovely. It’s the sweetest thing I ever knew, and I won’t let anything interfere with it.”