Barbara’s answer was in a very constrained tone.
“Ah, well, ’tis to no good fretting,” returned Lady Enville, gently smoothing Clare’s hair. “I cannot abide doole (mourning) and gloomy faces. I would have all about me fresh and bright while I am so.”
This was rather above Clare’s comprehension; but looking up at Barbara, the child saw tears in her eyes. Her little heart revolted in a moment from the caressing lady in velvet. What did she mean by making Bab cry?
It was rather a misfortune that at this moment it pleased Lady Enville to kiss Clare’s forehead, and to say—
“Art thou ready to love us all, darling? Thou must know thy sisters, and ye can play you together, when their tasks be adone.—Margaret!”
“Ay, Madam.”
The elder girl laid down her work, and came to Lady Enville’s side.
“And thou too, Lucrece.—These be they, sweeting. Kiss them. Thou shalt see Blanche ere it be long.”
But then Clare’s stored-up anger broke out. The limit of her endurance had been reached, and shyness was extinguished by vexation.
“Get away!” she said, as Margaret bent down to kiss her. “You are not my sisters! I won’t kiss you! I won’t call you sisters. Blanche is my sister, but not you. Get away, both of you!”