Em’ly.—Mother, dear, I did my best to reason with her, but she only stamped her foot, and bade me hold my saucy tongue. She said the dress was ruined.
Mrs. Felton.—Our lot is indeed hard. What a dreadful misfortune my sickness has proved to be.
Em’ly.—Dorothy Clyde stopped me on the road opposite the mill; she saw that my eyes were red, and pressed me so hard that I made a clean breast of the whole matter. She said she would be over about ten o’clock with her father, the Squire.
Mrs. Felton.—Oh, if your poor, dear papa had only lived, how different our lot would be to-day. Alas! I fear we shall soon be homeless.
Em’ly (Kneels at her side).—Do not give way to such gloomy thoughts; God has promised to care for the widow and the fatherless; let us trust in His goodness.
Mrs. Felton.—My child, your mother is justly rebuked. We will trust in the Lord, come what may.
[Knock at the door.]
Em’ly (Rises and opens door).—Oh! walk in, Miss Philp.
(Enter Miss Philp and Mercy, the latter bearing a bundle.)
Miss Philp.—Walk in! Do you suppose I would run in, crawl in or creep in? Walk in! Of course I’ll walk in, and when I am ready, I shall walk out again. Humph!