"You treat us so because we are strangers," she said, "and I hate you all. I never wanted to come here—they made me come—and I shan't stay if I can help it. I shall run away, and take Frances."
Little Frances, meanwhile, clung crying to her sister, who went on talking so wildly and passionately that Jane thought it better to make a move to the lavatory with the younger children, and leave the new girls for a time to themselves.
A great change passed over poor Kate's face when she and her sister were once more alone together. The passion left it, and was replaced by a melancholy smile. She sat down on the bed, took her little sister's hand, and looked long into her face.
"Are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length.
"Not so badly, but I made a great noise, didn't I!"
Kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted her out of bed.
"Now, Frances, darling, come with me to the window, and I will show you the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles. Look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such strange, pale lights on the snow. Look at the icicles—did you ever see such lovely ones! Look at the trees—every tiniest little branch covered with frost! Look at the pictures the frost has made upon the window,—see, there are forests,—and oh, more wonderful things than I could tell.
"Nobody loves you and me, Frances. We've only got each other,—and I hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). But I am glad things are so pretty. One might almost think that somebody had loved you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!" Kate's eyes softened as she said this,—she had beautiful eyes, large and dark. The rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of purpose, but little feeling. Poor Kate! the furrows on her forehead, the old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of much hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past. She was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little Frances in her arms. It was no new attitude to Kate. Her figure was stunted and slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her little sister about; but the weight of little Frances had rested upon her in another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts to shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in appearance was so marked between the two sisters. Frances with her soft little pink and white face, her solemn eyes, and smiling mouth, and without a hard line anywhere, looked as if life had smiled upon her.
All through the day the little strangers kept close together, and took very little notice of what went on around them. They ate their Christmas dinner in solemn silence, and declined to join in the games. Mother Agnes was disappointed, for her whole heart was bound up in her children's happiness; and least of all she could bear to see sad faces on Christmas Day. She watched Kate with much interest, but could not wholly understand her.