"Young," says Miss Peyton.
"Well, old, if you like it. She certainly, poor soul, did remind one of the 'sere and yellow.' But this child is all fire and life; and really," says the vicar, with a sigh that may be relief, "I think we all like it better; she is quite a break-in upon our monotony."
"I am so glad you all like her;" says Clarissa, quite beaming with satisfaction. "She was such a dear little thing when last I saw her; so gentle, too,—like a small mouse."
"Oh, was she?" says the vicar, anxiously. "She is changed a little, I think. To me she is rather terrifying. Now, for instance, this morning at breakfast, she asked me, before the children, 'if I didn't find writing sermons a bore.' And when I said—as I was in duty bound to say, my dear Clarissa—that I did not, she laughed out quite merrily, and said she 'didn't believe me'! Need I say the children were in raptures? but I could have borne that, only, when Mrs. Redmond forsook me and actually laughed too, I felt the end of all things was come. Clarissa," (severely), "I do hope I don't see you laughing, too."
"Oh, no!—not—not much," says Miss Peyton, who is plainly enjoying the situation to its utmost. "It is very hard on you, of course."
"Well, it is," says the vicar, with his broad and rather handsome smile, that works such miracles in the parish and among the mining people, who look upon him as their own special property. "It is difficult for a man to hope to govern his own household when his nearest and dearest turn him into open ridicule. Your little friend is a witch. What shall we do with her?"
"Submit to her," says Clarissa. "Where is she? I want to see her."
"Cissy will find her for you. I dare say they are together, unless your 'Madam Quicksilver,' as I call her, has taken to herself wings and flown away."
He turns, as though to go with her.
"No, no," says Clarissa; "I shall easily find her by myself. Go, and do what you meant to do before I stopped you."