“The debbil!”
“Grace! What wicked word is that you speak?”
“It was, it was! I seen him! He come—set on my feet—an’—an’—Oh! Auntie Prin, you hold me close. ’Cause he was a talkin’ debbil. He come to cotch me—he said it, yes he did.”
Miss Tross-Kingdon was as perplexed as horrified. That little Grace, her orphan niece and the dearest thing in life to her, should speak like this and be in such a state was most amazing.
For a few seconds she did hold the little one “close” and in silence, tenderly stroking the small body and folding her own light shawl about it, and gradually its trembling ceased, the shuddering sobs grew fainter and fewer and the exhausted little maid fell fast asleep. Just then the clock on the mantel chimed for eight and Miss Muriel’s place was in assembly, on the platform with the famous lecturer who had come to do her great school honor. She must go and at once.
Dorothy, watching, saw the struggle in the aunt’s mind depicted on her face. With a tender clasp of the little one she put her own desire aside and turned to duty; and the girl’s own heart warmed to the stately woman as she had not believed it ever could.
Dawkins had prophesied: “You’ll love Miss Muriel, once you know her,” but Dorothy had not believed her. Yet here it was coming true already!
“Dorothy, will you please ring for a maid to look after Grace? Wake up, darling, Auntie Prin must go.”
The child roused as her aunt spoke, but when she attempted to put her down and rise, the frantic screams broke out afresh, nor would she submit to be lifted by the maid who promptly came. Miss Muriel’s bell was not one to be neglected!
“No, no, no! I shan’t—I won’t—the deb—”