"Yes, mother ... no, mother," she answered shortly, "I'll be all right. Good-bye." She could not, however, restrain a kind of dry sob, which jumped up her throat.
When she was in the coach Sarah, whom she had forgotten climbed up to kiss her; and there was some joking between O'Donnell and the servant while the steps were being folded and put away. Laura did not smile; her thin little face was very pale. Mother's heart went out to her in a pity which she did not know how to express.
"Don't forget your sandwiches. And when you're alone, feel in the pocket of your ulster and you'll find something nice. Good-bye, darling."
"Good-bye ... good-bye."
The driver had mounted to his seat, he unwound the reins cried "Get up!" to the two burly horses, the vehicle was set in motion and trundled down the main street. Until it turned the corner by the Shire Gardens, Laura let her handkerchief fly from the window. Sarah waved hers; then wiped her eyes and lustily blew her nose. Mother only sighed.
"It was all she could do to keep up," she said as much to herself as to Sarah. "I do hope she'll be all right. She seems such a child to be sending off like this. Yet what else could I do? To a State School, I've always said it, my children shall never go—not if I have to beg the money to send them elsewhere."
But she sighed again, in spite of the energy of her words, and stood gazing at the place where the coach had disappeared. She was still a comparatively young woman, and straight of body; but trouble, poverty and night-watches had scored many lines on her forehead.
"Don't you worry," said Sarah. "Miss Laura'll be all right. She's just a bit too clever—brains for two, that's what it is. An' children WILL grow up an' get big ... an' change their feathers." She spoke absently, drawing her metaphor from a brood of chickens which had strayed across the road, and was now trying to mount the wooden verandah—"Shooh! Get away with you!"
"I know that. But Laura—The other children have never given me a moment's worry. But Laura's different. I seem to get less and less able to manage her. If only her father had been alive to help!"
"I'm sure no father livin' could do more than you for those blessed children," said Sarah with impatience. "You think of nothin' else. It 'ud be a great deal better if you took more care o' yourself. You sit up nights an' don't get no proper sleep slavin' away at that blessed embroid'ry an' stuff, so as Miss Laura can get off to school an' to 'er books. An' then you want to worry over 'er as well.—She'll be all right. Miss Laura's like peas. You've got to get 'em outer the pod—they're in there sure enough. An' b'sides I guess school'll knock all the nonsense out of 'er."