"Well, you might keep a civil tongue. I'm only speaking for your good," observed her stepmother. "Some day you'll know I'm right, when you're a bit tired of being that fellow's slave, and of seeing that conceited chit always put before you. Perhaps then you'll remember it was me as had to suffer, with all them children to look after, because you was that ill-natured and that selfish. Good morning to you."
She walked out of the house with an injured air. Mary was far too much used to her way of talking, however, to pay much attention. She called after her, "Look here! just tell Mrs. Randal as you pass that I've got the ironing to finish, and the house to clean up, and I'll be down as soon as ever I can."
Mrs. Alfrick did not condescend to turn her head or to make any answer. She called the children—the elder ones had gone on before—and they trooped off down the lane all together.
It seemed, however, as if her bark might be worse than her bite, for when she reached the blacksmith's cottage, she told the children to wait for her in the road, turned in at the little gate, and knocked at the door. It was opened by Lily.
The little girl was now, as far as they could guess, about six years old, for more than three years—it was now October—had passed by since that evening of summer storm when the old thorn roots had done their best to shelter her till she found a safer refuge in John's kind arms. She was a small, slight child, fair and delicate-looking, with beautiful, expressive blue eyes, hair still in the silky golden curls of early childhood, and a general air of grace and refinement that marked some difference, real or imaginary, between her and her companions at school and play. They all admired Lily and gave up to her; and if Mrs. Randal had not been firm as well as kind, this, with John's indulgence, might have been very bad for the child's character. But though she was self-willed and accustomed to take the lead, the home life of the cottage taught her to be unselfish, generous, and truthful. Lily had her faults, but they were not of a serious or a mean kind, and her loving little heart was quite devoted to John and his mother. Towards Mary she never, even now, showed much affection; the girl was undemonstrative and shy. But she took her as a matter of course, as something belonging to John, and therefore to be trusted, to be flown to in trouble, to be obeyed when necessary.
Mrs. Alfrick, when the door was opened, stared down rather in surprise at the slight little figure in the simple blue frock.
"Well, my dear, and where's mother?" she said slowly.
"Poor Mrs. Nash is very ill," the child answered in sweet tones, hardly spoilt by the accent of the county. "They came and fetched mother. She said I mustn't mind stopping alone for a bit, 'cause Polly was coming."
"Well, I never! Let's come in a minute, there's a good child," said Mrs. Alfrick, pushing the door, which Lily was holding open just wide enough to show her small self, and no more. "Well, I never! and so you're left all alone."
Mrs. Alfrick stood on the bright red tiles and looked round at the polished cleanliness, the exquisite order of everything in that little low room. She did not often pay a visit there, for there was not much love lost between John's home and Mary's. Her look now was one of both envy and admiration. "But how can one ever keep a thing clean with all them children about, and that girl Polly with half her heart down here?" she muttered, in answer to her own thoughts. Then she looked again at Lily, saw that the little face was not cheerful, that the eyes so wistfully lifted were not without traces of tears, and an idea came into her head.