“And I don’t either, and I never shall,” cried May sharply.
“You must, you must, May, my darling. There, there; you are flushed and excited with your head being so bad, and Frank was not so gentle as he might have been. He was vexed because you had turned ill.”
“Nasty, fretful wretch!”
“May!”
“I don’t care; he is,” cried the little foolish thing, looking wonderfully like an angry child as she spoke.
“Hush! I will not let you speak of your husband like that, May.”
“Husband! A contemptible little tipsy wretch who bought me of papa because I was pretty. I loathe him, I tell you. Papa ought to have been ashamed of himself for selling me as he did.”
“May! May! little sister!” said Claire, weeping silently as she drew her baby head to her bosom, and tried to stay the flow of bitter words that came.
“Horses and carriages, and servants and dresses, and nothing else but misery. I tell you—I don’t care! If he ever beats me again I’ll run away from him, that I will.”
“No, no, little passionate, tender heart,” said Claire lovingly. “You are ill and troubled to-night. There, there. You shall sleep quietly to-night under the old roof. Why, May dear, it seems like the dear old times, and you are the little girl again whom I am going to undress and put to bed. There, you are better now.”