"I don't want any little girls and boys," Dorothy said. "I shan't play with them."
"Oh, nonsense! you will learn to play with them—Hoodman Blind, and Tom Tickler's ground; won't that be jolly?"
Dorothy made no response, and her mother coming into the room, with her shawl wrapped closely round her, she slipped down from her uncle's knee and took up her position at her mother's feet, with one of the kittens in her lap, saying—
"Read, mother; please read."
"Your mother can't read to-night, Dorothy," said the Canon, who had taken up the Times. "She has coughed so much to-day, and is very hoarse."
Dorothy pouted, and her mother, clearing her throat, said—
"Oh, I will try to finish the chapter we left unfinished last night. That will not hurt me."
It was a pity that Dorothy was so seldom denied anything. It was simply that there was no absolute necessity for refusing her what she asked, and she had no idea yet that giving up her own will was a sweet gift the youngest child may offer to her Father in heaven—the Father of the dear Lord Jesus Christ, who offered Himself in life and in death for the sinful, sad world He came to save. So Mrs. Acheson finished the chapter of the story, and then it was time for Dorothy to go to bed, for Ingleby appeared at the door, and said it was past eight o'clock, and much too late for a little girl to be in the drawing-room.
I daresay you wish to know what Dorothy was like, and as she goes up the wide staircase of Canon's House, she makes a very pretty picture. She had long, silky, fair hair, which was not frizzed and crimped, but hung down to her waist, and even below it, with soft, curled ends.
As Ingleby had no other child to look after, it was natural that she should bestow much pains on Dorothy's appearance. She wore a pretty white cashmere frock, with a wide rose-coloured sash, her black silk stockings fitted her legs precisely, and her dainty shoes had pretty buckles.