“I know,” Elfrida whispered. So she must have had more of that like-shepherds-telling-the-time-of-night feeling than even her brother.
“I wish I could remember what was happening in history in 1807,” said Elfrida, “but we never get past Edward IV. We always have to go back to the Saxons because of the new girls.”
“But we’re not in history. We’re at Arden,” Edred said.
“We are in history. It’ll be awful not even knowing who’s king,” said Elfrida; and then the stiff old lady looked up over very large spectacles with thick silver rims, and said—
“Silence!”
Presently she laid down the Times and got ink and paper—no envelopes—and began to write. She was finishing a letter, the large sheet was almost covered on one side. When she had covered it quite, she turned it round and began to write across it. She used a white goose-quill pen. The inkstand was of china, with gold scrolls and cupids and wreaths of roses painted on it. On one side was the ink-well, on the other a thing like a china pepper-pot, and in front a tray for the pens and sealing-wax to lie in. Both children now knew their unpleasant poem by heart; so they watched the old lady, who was grandmother to the children she supposed them to be. When she had finished writing she sprinkled some dust out of the pepper-pot over the letter to dry the ink. There was no blotting-paper to be seen. Then she folded the sheet, and sealed it with a silver seal from the pen-tray, and wrote the address on the outside. Then—
“Have you got your task?” she asked.
“Here it is,” said Elfrida, holding up the book.
“No impudence, miss!” said the grandmother sternly. “You very well know that I mean, have you got it by rote yet? And you know, too, that you should say ‘ma’am’ whenever you address me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Elfrida; and this was taken to mean that she knew her task.