“Wouldn’t you like to dress this nice doll?” Isabel asked, taking up one of the unclad abortions.
“No.”
“Have you been to school yet, Ada?”
“Yes.”
“And can you read?”
“Yes.”
Isabel tested her, and found that the reply had been accurate; but for the ear-jarring pronunciation, the reading was remarkable for a child of seven.
A person answering to the description of nursery-governess had been found for the child, and to her care Ada was for a long time almost exclusively left. Isabel went into the nursery daily and spoke a few words. More than this she could not do, her soul was in revolt.
She did not quit Knightswell throughout the summer, but in September she went with friends to the south coast. On her return she paid an early visit to the nursery. It was afternoon, and darkness was gathering. Ada was lying on the floor asleep, a book which she had been reading lying beside her. Isabel knelt down and looked at the child, whose face was still almost haggard, and had an expression of suffering beyond her years.
“You poor, poor thing!” she said to herself, pitying at last, though she could not do more. “I will try hard to do my duty by you. You will never love me, and will think meanly enough of me some day.”