“It was Mr Burge’s particular request,” said Hazel gently; “and, mother dear, you will nearly break their hearts if you forbid them now.”
“There, there, there,” sobbed Mrs Thorne; “it’s time I died and was taken out of your way. I’m only a nuisance and a burden to you.”
“Mother!”
Only that one word, but the way in which it was uttered, and the graceful form that went down upon its knees before her to draw the head she kept rocking to and fro down upon her breast proved sufficient to calm the weak woman. Her sobs grew less frequent, and she at last began to wipe her eyes, after kissing Hazel again and again.
“I suppose we must accept our fate, my dear,” she said at last. “I’m sure I do mine. And now mind this. Cissy—Mabel!”
“Yes, mamma! Oh, sister Hazel, isn’t it time to go?”
“I say you will mind this. Cissy—Mabel, you are to—But must they walk in procession with those terrible children, Hazel?”
“Why not, dear? They will be with me, and what can be more innocent and pleasant than this treat to the poor girls? There, there, I know, for my sake, you will come up and lend your countenance to their sports.”
“Well, well,” sighed Mrs Thorne. “I’ll try. But mind me, Hazel,” she exclaimed sharply, “I’m not coming up with that dreadful woman, Mrs Chute. I am coming by myself.”
“Yes, dear, I would,” said Hazel.