“Then come and sit by me and tell me all about it.”
Aline came and sat by him on the old settee. “You see it is not exactly because she hits me that I mind, although I have never been hit by any one before; but she is always doing little petty things that in some ways are harder to bear than being knocked about;—for instance, when we sit down to breakfast there are always two pitchers of milk, which we have with our porridge. They are neither of them quite full, and she takes one of them and pours out some for herself and Cousin Richard, then she looks into it to see what is left and generally pours most of it into the other pitcher. After that she hands the full one to Audry and the one with only a little drop in the bottom to me.”
“Does Audry know?”
“Of course not,—dear Audry,—I am sure if it would benefit Audry I would go without milk altogether. I would not have her know for worlds; she would quarrel with her mother over it.”
“What else does she do?” Ian asked.
Aline then told the story of the packman. She did not yet know what had been done by Elspeth and the others about the linen, but she pulled up the necklace which she was wearing under her dress and shewed it to Ian. “Now is that not pretty? I have always wanted a necklace and father had promised only a little while before he died that as soon as he could afford it he would get me one; so I try to think of it as if it was father’s present.”
The tears again gathered in the beautiful eyes and this time one rolled over on to her cheek. She brushed it away hastily; but Ian drew her gently towards him and kissed her for the first time. “Sweet little maiden,” he said, “I hope that God will be good to you after what you have been through in your young life.”
“I do not like the priest here,” she continued; “of course I like Father Laurence, but Middleton is too far away and when I went to confession the other day I said something to Father Ambrose about father, but he was not a bit kind and sympathetic like our dear old priest at home. I always keep a candle burning for father; that is what I mainly spend my money on, and I wanted him to tell me how long he thought it would be before my father’s soul would get to heaven; do you think it will be very long, and will my candles help him? Somehow I do not see why God should make any difference because of our candles; suppose my father had had no little girl to burn candles; or suppose that I had had no money, that would have been worse still.”
“These things are very difficult, sweet child, but I am sure that the love of your little heart that happens to show itself in buying the candles must meet with its own reward, whether candles themselves are necessary or not. But I am afraid that I cannot be of much use to you, little one, because I am no longer of the old faith.”
“Tell me something about that then. Father said that he would tell me when I got older.”