Mrs Thorne felt relieved, for she was afraid that the child had seen her with the notes, and that might have interfered with her plans.
“I’m sure it is quite time your sister was down, my dear,” said the lady indignantly. “I don’t know how she expects the wretched children she teaches to be punctual, if she is so late herself.” And assuming an aspect of dignified, injured state, she seated herself at the table, the children smothering their mirth as they also sat down, one on either side, and watched the door.
Hazel hurried down directly after, to come hastily into the little kitchen, where, reading the children’s faces, she felt the tears rush into her eyes with the emotion caused by the pleasant innocent surprise, and went and kissed them both before saluting her mother, who kept up her childish, injured air.
“Really, Hazel, my dear, I think when I do come down that you might study me a little, and not leave everything to these poor children. It comes very hard upon me, to see them driven to such menial duties, when their sister might place us all in a state of opulence. It seems very hard—very hard indeed.”
Hazel glanced at her, but did not speak. There was that, however, in her eyes which told of mingled reproach and pity, emotions that the weak woman could not read, as she took the tea handed to her, sipping it slowly with an injured sigh.
“Were there any letters, mother!” said Hazel, when breakfast was half over and she had glanced at the clock, for Feelier Potts had been for the schoolroom key, and already there were distant echoing sounds of voices and footsteps in the great room, which told of the arrival of the scholars.
Mrs Thorne did not reply.
“Were there any letters, mother dear?” said Hazel again.
“Pass me the bread and butter, Mab, my child,” said Mrs Thorne, colouring slightly, while Hazel looked at her with wonder.
“There were three letters for you, Hazy,” cried Cissy sharply.