"I told him to go, sir, and he wouldn't," John Monday muttered, ignoring his master's question. "It wasn't my fault," he added.
"Who said it was your fault?" demanded the old man in a snappish tone. "I never did!"
He returned to the parlour, and took up his pen again, feeling irritated at the boy's manner, which had seemed to him sulky. It was some minutes before he could collect his thoughts; but, finally, the letter accepting Mrs. Dawson's kind invitation was written, and he called to Mousey to come and hear what he had said to her Aunt Eliza.
"Will that do?" he inquired, after he had read the letter aloud.
"Yes, beautifully," she replied; "but please, Cousin Robert, will you tell her how much I am looking forward to see them all?"
So Mr. Harding added a postscript to that effect, and having sealed the envelope, gave her the letter to post herself.
The little girl was looking very bright. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes shone with happiness. The old man sighed, though he reflected that Aunt Eliza would not be able to say Haughton did not suit the child, for she had certainly greatly improved in appearance lately. "I wish your poor mother could see you, my dear," he exclaimed involuntarily.
"And I wish she could know how kind you are to me," Mousey cried, her eyes filling with tears, as they always did when she thought of her mother. "Perhaps she does know," she added quickly; "she always said God would take care of me when she was gone, and He has. I thought it very strange that you should want me to come and live with you, Cousin Robert, but I suppose God put it into your heart to be kind to me."
"I don't know that He did," Mr. Harding responded.
"Oh, but He must have! I'm afraid I'm very expensive," Mousey said, thinking of the new things she was to have. "I don't believe Aunt Eliza would mind a bit if I had no new clothes."