Her mother died—her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs Willis loved her—she bestowed upon her amongst all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst scrapes made them smile. Annie’s companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest.
During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favourite—some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her.
All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs Willis joined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie’s spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally.
She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and everyone, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation—
“Me tumming—me tumming, Annie!” and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie’s.
There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.
“Me yiding from naughty nurse—me ’tay with ’oo, Annie—me love ’oo, Annie.”
Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.
“Why ky?” said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie’s eyes; “dere, poor ickle Annie—me love ’oo—me buy ’oo a new doll.”
“Dearest little darling,” said Annie in a voice of almost passionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. “Come, Nan,” she said, “you and I will have such a race.”