"You ought to have told us before," said her father seriously. "She may have suffered more than we shall ever know."
"Oh, I don't think she minded really, because when she stopped crying she told me the whole story. It was all a make up, and she forgot she was pretending it was real because she went on to when she was eighteen, and—oh, I forget what she did then, but I know she rode to hounds and had a silvery laugh."
Across Edward Webb's worried face a complaisant look was stealing; his eyes had brightened. He met Nancy's laughing glance and answered it, but there was more than amusement in his: there was pride.
"You see," he said to her when Grace had left the room, "she's not an ordinary child."
"I wish her temper were ordinary. It's dreadful, Edward. She threw a plate at Bessie yesterday; I don't know why."
"Surely you ought to have found out, dear, and done something to correct her."
"I went to bed," said Nancy simply.
"You'll have to see a doctor."
"My dear, we simply can't afford it. Besides, I know what to do."
"I don't really need that new suit, Nancy."