Ailwin had looked for some compliments to her cookery from the hungry boys; but they forgot, in their eagerness about the raft, that it was a treat in these days to have meal-cakes; and they ate and talked, without thinking much of what it was that they were putting into their mouths. When they went off again to see what they could find, it is not to be told how Mildred would have liked to go with them. She did not want her dinner, to which Ailwin said they two would now sit down comfortably. She did not now mind the precipice and the broken walls, and the staring rafters. She longed to stand somewhere, and see the boys take prizes in the stream. She had held poor George all the morning; for he would not let her put him on the bed. Her back ached, her arms were stiff, and her very heart was sick with his crying. He had been fretting or wailing ever since daylight; and Mildred felt as if she could not bear it one minute longer. Just then she heard a laugh from the boys outside; and Ailwin began to sing, as she always did when putting away the pots and pans. Nobody seemed to care: nobody seemed to think of her; and Mildred remembered how different it would have been if her mother had been there. Her mother would have been thinking about poor George all the morning: but her mother would have thought of her too; would have remembered that she must be tired; and have cheered her with talk, or with saying something hopeful about the poor baby.
When Ailwin stopped her loud singing, for a moment, while considering in which corner she should set down her stew-pan, she heard a gentle sob. Looking round, she saw Mildred’s face covered with tears.
“What’s the matter now, dear?” said she. “Is the baby worse? No,—he don’t seem worse to me.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But, Ailwin, I am so tired, I don’t know what to do; and I cannot bear to hear him cry so. He has been crying in this way all to-day; and it is the longest day I ever knew.”
“Well, I’m sure I wish we could think of anything that would quiet him. If we had only his go-cart, now, or his wooden lamb, with the white wool upon it, that he is so fond of ... But they are under water below.”
“But if you could only take him for a little while, Ailwin, I should be so glad! I would wash up all your dishes for you.”
“Take him! Oh, that’s what you are at! To be sure I will; and I might have thought of that before,—only I had my pans and things to put away. I’ll wash my hands now directly, and take him:—only, there is not much use in washing one’s hands: this foul damp smell seems to stick to everything one touches. It is that boy’s doing, depend upon it. He is at the bottom of all mischief.—Ay, Mildred, you need not object to what I say. After what I saw of him yesterday morning, with all that plague of animals about him on the stairs, you will never persuade me that he has not some league with bad creatures, a good way off. I don’t half like Oliver’s being with him on the raft, in the stream there. That raft was wonderfully ready made for two slips of boys.”
“They had the planks ready to their hands,” said Mildred, trembling; “and leather harness and ropes to tie it with. I think they might to do it as they said. What harm do you suppose will happen, Ailwin? I am sure Oliver would do nothing wrong, about making the raft, or anything else.—O dear! I wish George would not cry so!”
“Here, give him to me,” said Ailwin, who had now washed her hands, and taken off her cooking apron. “There, go you and finish the dishes, and then to play,—there’s a dear! And don’t think about George, or about Roger, and the raft, or anything that will vex you,—there’s a dear!”
Ailwin gave Mildred a smacking kiss, as she received little George from her; and, though Mildred could not, as she was bid, put away all vexing thoughts, she was cheered by Ailwin’s good-will.