“Rosamund, it is out of my power to gratify all your restless whims; you are scarcely at home when you are off again. You will turn into one of those gadding women, those busy-bodies who are a disgrace to their sex. Mary,” turning to my mother, “I wonder you allow it.”
“Could not you stay at home to-day, Rose, dear?” she asked, gently, looking at me with a sweet piteous sort of smile.
“I’ll stay at home to-morrow, mother darling,” I answered. “I am ever so sorry to leave you to-day, but it is absolutely necessary for me to go to town.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said my father. “I shan’t pay for your ticket, miss.”
“I’ve enough money to do that for myself,” I replied.
The sorrow in my mother’s eyes deepened. She could never bear any of us to oppose our father. I followed her into the little drawing-room.
“A fire already!” she exclaimed. “What can Sally have been thinking of?”
“It was my fault, mother. I lit the fire.”
“Rosamund, dear, how very wasteful! And we have scarcely any coal in the cellar, and your father says he will not be able to order a fresh supply before Monday.”
“Mother darling, sit down in your easy-chair and warm yourself by the fire; you look so white and shivery. Mammie dear,” I continued, kneeling down and rubbing my cheek affectionately against hers, “I feel full of hope to-day—I cannot economise to-day—don’t ask me.”