“No, papa. Do show us how you look when you cry.”
Mr Rowland’s face, all dolefulness, emerged from behind the newspaper, and the children shouted.
“But,” said Matilda, observing that her mother’s brow began to lower, “I think it is very odd that Mrs Hope did not stay at home if she wanted to cry. It is so very odd to go crying about the streets!”
“I dare say Deerbrook is very much obliged to her,” said papa. “It will be something to talk about for a week.”
“But what could she be crying for, papa?”
“Suppose you ask her, my dear? Had you not better put on your bonnet, and go directly to Mr Hope’s, and ask, with our compliments, what Mrs Hope was crying for at four o’clock yesterday afternoon? Of course she can tell better than anybody else.”
“Nonsense, Mr Rowland,” observed his lady. “Go, children, it is very near school-time.”
“No, mamma; not by—”
“Go, I insist upon it, Matilda. I will have you do as you are bid. Go, George: go, Anna.—Now, my love, did I not tell you so, long ago? Do not you remember my observing to you, how coldly Mr Hope took our congratulations on his engagement in the summer? I was sure there was something wrong. They are not happy, depend upon it.”
“What a charming discovery that would be!”