Emily felt cold at heart. How could she tell? John's words went for nothing; Miss Christie might have mistaken them. She did not pretend to misunderstand, but said she did not know; she had no reason to think it was true.
"But everybody says so," sighed Barbara.
"If your father has said nothing—" Emily began.
"No," she answered; her father had said nothing at all; but the mere mention of his name seemed to overcome her.
Emily sat down, talked to her, and tried to soothe her; but she had no distinct denial to give, and in five minutes Barbara, kneeling before her, was sobbing on her bosom, and bemoaning herself as if she would break her heart.
Truly the case of a step-mother is hard.
Emily leaned her cheek upon the young upturned forehead. She faltered a little as she spoke. If her father chose to marry again, had he not a right? If she loved him, surely she wanted him to be—happy.
"But she is a nasty, nasty thing," sobbed Barbara, with vehement heavings of the chest and broken words, "and—and—I am sure I hate her, and so does Gladys, and so does Johnnie too." Then her voice softened again—"Oh, father, father! I would take such care of the little ones if you wouldn't do it! and we would never, never quarrel with the governesses, or make game of them any more."
Emily drew her yet nearer to herself, and said in the stillest, most matter-of-fact tone—
"Of course you know that you are a very naughty girl, my sweet."