“I know that. I am glad. But some one must see your sisters when they come in.”
It was just at that moment that a girl, somewhat fagged, somewhat shabby looking, with a face a good deal torn, for she had got amongst briars and thorns and underwood on her way home, crept up the narrow path towards the house. This girl was her mother’s darling, Nesta, the youngest of the family, the baby, as she was called. Her time with Flossie had, after all, been the reverse of agreeable. They had begun their tea with every prospect of having a good time; but soon the mob of rough people who had come to witness the donkey races discovered them, and so terrified both little girls that they ran away and hid, leaving all Flossie’s property behind them.
This was thought excellent fun by the roughs of Newcastle; they scoured the woods, looking for the children, and as a matter of fact, poor Nesta had never got a greater fright than when she crouched down in the brambles, devoutly hoping that some of the rough boys would not pull her out of her lair.
Eventually she and Flossie had escaped with only a few scratches and some torn clothes, but she was miserably tired and longing for comfort when she approached the house. So absorbed was she with her own adventures that she absolutely forgot the fact that she had run away and left her mother to the care of the others. As she entered the house, however, it flashed upon her what might be thought of her conduct.
“Dear, dear!” she thought, “I shall have a time of it with Molly to-night; but I don’t care. I’m not going to be bullied or browbeaten. I’ll just let Miss Molly see that I’m going to have my fun as well as another. I wish though, I didn’t sleep in the room with them; they’ll be as cross and cantankerous as two tabby cats.”
Nesta entered the house. Somehow the house did not seem to be quite as usual; the drawing room was not lit up; it had not been used that evening. She poked her head round the dining-room door. There was no appetising and hearty meal ready for tired people when they returned home. What was the matter? Why, her father must be back by this time. She went into the kitchen.
“Cook!” she said.
“Keep out of my way, Miss Nesta,” said the cook.
“What do you mean? Where is my supper? I want my supper. Where are all the others? Where’s Molly? Where’s Ethel? I suppose that stupid old Marcia is back now? Where are they all?”
“That’s more than I can tell you,” said cook, and now he turned round and faced the girl. “I only know that it’s ten o’clock, and that you have been out when you ought to be in, and as to Miss Molly and Miss Ethel, I don’t want to have anything to do with them in the future. Here’s Susan—she’ll tell you why there ain’t no supper for you—she’ll speak a bit of her mind. Susan, here’s Miss Nesta, come in as gay as you please, and asks for her supper. And where are the others, says she, and where’s Marcia, says she. And is she back, says she. Miss Marcia is back, thank the Lord; that’s about the only thing we have to be thankful for in this house to-night.”