“Oh, well, I only came for my hat. You are in the children’s secret, of course, Miss Young?”
“About their feast. Yes, I believe I know all about it.”
“I am going to ask some important questions for them at the confectioner’s. You will not object to my bringing them a few good things?”
“I? Oh, no.”
“I would not act in so serious a matter without asking you. Can I be of any use to you in the village? Or perhaps you may want some pens mended before I go?”
“No, I thank you.”
“Then I will not interrupt your letter any longer. Good morning.”
It was a wonder that the letter was written at all. When Maria had done leaning back in her chair, and had taken up her pen again, she was disturbed by painful sounds from Mrs Rowland’s garden. The lady’s own Matilda, and precious George, and darling Anna, were now pronounced to be naughty, wilful, mischievous, and, finally, to be combined together to break their mamma’s heart. It was clear that they were receiving the discharge of the wrath which was caused by somebody else. Now a wail, now a scream of passion, went to Maria’s heart. She hastened on with her letter, in the hope that Mrs Rowland would presently go into the house, when the little sufferers might be invited into the schoolroom, to hear a story, or have their ruffled tempers calmed by some other such simple means.
“What a life of discipline this is!” thought Maria. “We all have it, sooner or later. These poor children are beginning early. If one can but help them through it! There she goes in, and shuts the door behind her! Now I may call them hither, and tell them something or another about Una and her lion.”
At the well-known sound of Miss Young’s lame step, the little ones all came about her. One ashamed face was hid on her shoulder; another was relieved of its salt tears; and the boy’s pout was first relaxed, and then forgotten.