The interruption was a relief to Hepsy. The children had returned from the fields; they entered the sitting-room like a little band of barbarians, with Lizzie—a girl some twelve years old—at their head, laughing, talking, screaming, in an almost frightful manner.
"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, putting down his foot, impatiently.
"Children!" said Mrs. Royden, with contracted brows, "you don't know how your noise shoots through my poor old head! You drive me distracted!"
"Lizzie runned away from me!" bawled a little bareheaded fellow, with a face red as an Indian's, and not very clean. "The old thing! I'll strike her."
And the young hero, wiping his face with his sleeve, made a savage dash at his sister, with intent to scratch and bite. But Lizzie repelled the attack, holding him at a safe distance by the hair. Upon this, he shifted his mode of attack, and resorted to kicking, with even worse success; for, losing his balance, he fell, and came down upon the back of his head, with a jar which showed him many stars in the firmament of his cranium.
"I never saw such actions!" muttered Mrs. Royden, putting aside her sewing with an ominous gesture, and hastening to the scene of the disaster.
Lizzie dodged, but not in time to avoid several smart cuffs which her mother bestowed on her ears.
"I couldn't help it,—he threw himself down!" exclaimed the girl, angrily, and with flashing eyes.
"What did you run away from him for?"
"I didn't! He stopped to throw stones at the birds, and wanted us to wait. Didn't he, Georgie?"