‘I suppose,’ says Miss Barry, with the air of one addressing a forlorn hope, ‘that you and Betty have nothing?’
It is plain that the poor lady had set her heart originally on having a ‘full set’ to send to the uncle abroad, but that reasons financial have crushed her hopes.
‘I have only sixpence,’ says Susan sadly. ‘You, Betty?’
‘I spent the twopence I had yesterday,’ says Betty, ‘on hairpins.’
‘Hairpins!’ cries Miss Barry indignantly. ‘And your hair not up yet!’
‘They were for Susan,’ explains Betty angrily, who had, indeed, bought them for Susan, but who, nevertheless, had spent an enjoyable hour with them, doing up her own hair, and seeing how she would look next year when ‘grown up.’
‘Well, that’s the end of it,’ says Miss Barry, with the courage of despair. ‘I certainly won’t ask your father for a penny, as I know he hasn’t one to spare this month; and, indeed’—sighing—‘I only hope that those reports about that bank in Scotland are untrue. It is in that he has invested the £500 he has laid aside for Carew—for his crammer, you know, and his outfit, and all the rest of it. I dare say the scare will come to nothing; but, at all events, he is a little pressed just now, so that for a mere luxury like this I think we had better not ask him for anything.’
‘Of course not,’ says Susan. ‘But, auntie’—slowly and a little nervously—‘would you mind very much if—if Bonnie had his picture taken instead of me? I have always so longed for one of his. He is so delicate, and—’ She stops suddenly, a terrible feeling in her throat forbidding another word.
‘My dear Susan! And you the eldest! Why, it would be quite an insult to your dear uncle. No, no,’ says Miss Barry; ‘we must depend upon another time to get Bonnie and Tom taken.’
Susan turns away. Will there ever be ‘another time’ for Bonnie? So frail in the warm summer-time, how will it be with him when the snows and the frosts set in?