Barbara had not even heard the question. She was full of her grievance against Jean Murray, which she had almost forgotten for the minute; and she burst out again, more angrily than before.
‘Don’t you understand?’ she cried passionately. ‘I wasn’t crying for that; it–it was something else, but I can’t tell you what it was, because you’d only laugh. They all laugh–except when they’re just being horrible! Why didn’t you let me run away last week? I don’t want to stop with people like Jean Murray, and–and all the rest of them; I hate being here, I hate the girls, I hate you! Why won’t you let me go away?’
She hardly knew what she was saying. She had not been in such a passion since the dreary day, two years ago, when they took her nurse away from her, and she had made herself ill with fretting.
Miss Finlayson tightened her grasp on the hand that was struggling to free itself; then she bent over her rebellious little pupil, and laid her other hand against her burning cheek.
‘Are you coming up to prayers, Babs?’ she repeated. Her persistence began to take effect, and the cool touch of her fingers was very soothing.
‘Why–why won’t you let me go away?’ sobbed Babs, and the tears rained down her cheeks again.
‘Why?’ echoed Miss Finlayson, producing a handkerchief that had not been used, like Barbara’s, to mop up ink blots. ‘Because I want you myself, to be sure.’
She dried the child’s eyes as she spoke; and the small tear-stained face looked up at her wistfully. ‘Do you want me?’ asked Barbara. ‘Does anybody want me–truthfully?’
Miss Finlayson nodded, and a look slowly deepened in her face that gave the child confidence. ‘Yes, Babs, truthfully,’ she answered. Then she repeated for the last time, ‘Are you coming to prayers?’ And keeping the hot little hand within hers, she led her upstairs to the chapel.
At Wootton Beeches the girls always walked in and out of chapel in the order of their classes, beginning at the top of the school. But, this evening, the youngest child in the school walked out in front of everybody, for Miss Finlayson held her by the hand and would not let her go. They stood together, a curiously assorted couple, at the end of the passage that led to the other wing of the house; and one after another the girls passed them on their way to their rooms. There was not a sound for some moments, except the tapping of footsteps on the polished boards; then, walking last of all, came Jean Murray. Babs broke from her companion and flung herself impetuously forward.