“Dear child, thank God for it!” replied Mrs Dorothy softly. “‘Ton sort n’est pas à plaindre.’”
“I declare, if ’tis not four o’clock!” cried Rhoda, springing up, and perhaps not sorry for the diversion. “There, now! I meant you to finish your story, and we haven’t time left. Come along, Phoebe! We are going to look in a minute on Mrs Marcella, and then we must hurry home.”
Chapter Five.
Gatty’s troubles.
“And I come down no more to chilling praise,
To sneers, to wearing out of empty days,
But rest, rejoicing in the power I’ve won,
To go on learning, though my crying’s done.”
Isabella Fyvie Mayo.
As the two girls turned into the little garden of Number Three, the latch of the door was lifted, and Mrs Jane came out.
“Good evening!” said she. “Come to see my sister, are you? I and my Deb are doing for her to-day, for her Nell has got a holiday—gone to see her mother—lazy slut!”
“Which is the lazy slut, Mrs Jane?” asked Rhoda, laughing.