"Agreed then, Simeon Greeber. You will take her for twelve months, treat her as your own boy, and have the same lessons taught her by Martha. And eight shillings a week for the board."
"Eight shillings?" queried a treacly voice, yet pained as well as treacly. "Eight shillings?" It is impossible to describe the sweet sad stress he laid on the numeral, or the wealth of poignant sentiment that stress conveyed. Not of greed or graspingness, oh dear no! Rather of pained sorrow at the greed and graspingness of Aunt Jael. "Eight? One fears 'twill be difficult. If it were nine, one might hope, one might struggle, one might endeavour—"
"Stuff and nonsense. A child of nine years old, eating little; and your table don't groan with good things. Eight is enough and to spare. Not one ha'penny-piece more. Yea or nay?"
A pause, ere Christian meekness gave in to unchristian ultimatum.
"Well then, dear Miss Vickary, one will try, one will hope—"
"Call the child," she cut him short.
I fled from the window guiltily. "Yes, Grandmother, I'm coming," I called back.
Uncle Simeon stayed the night: my last at Tawborough. Grandmother was kind. I did not know how I loved her till I felt I was going to lose her. This was my first big step in life. I was losing my old moorings, and sailing off to a new world. My mouth was dry, as it is when the heart is sick and apprehensive. Aunt Jael was adamant against my spending even occasional Lord's Days at Tawborough. I was to visit Bear Lawn but once during the year, though 'twas but nine miles away. There was no appeal against this: Aunt Jael had decided it.
Grandmother came to my bedroom. We read the twenty-third psalm together. Then she prayed for me, and we sang an old hymn together. At "Good-night, my dearie" I clung to her more than usual.
"There's only you in the world that really likes me."