“That I did. I was a handful, my mother used to say.”
“Then we has something in common,” said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling. “I’m a handful, too. I’m off to the schoolroom.”
“There never was such a child,” thought the woman as Sibyl dashed away, banging the door after her; “she’s not shy, and she’s as sweet as sweet can be, and yet she’s a handful of spirit, of uppishness and contrariness. Well, God bless her, whatever she is. How did that heartless mother come by her? I can understand her being the master’s child, but her mother’s! Dear me, I’m often sorry when I think how mistook the poor little thing is in that woman she thinks so perfect.”
Sibyl, quite happy, her heart beating high with excitement, poked her radiant little face round the schoolroom door. There were three children already in the room—Mabel, Gus, and Freda St. Claire. They were Lord Grayleigh’s children, and were handsome, and well cared for, and now looked with curiosity at Sibyl.
“Oh, you’re the little girl,” said Mabel, who was twelve years of age. She raised her voice in a languid tone.
“Yes, I are the little girl,” said Sibyl. She came forward with bold, confident steps, and looked at the tea table.
“Where is my place?” she said. “Is it laid for me? I am the visitor.”
Gus, aged ten, who had been somewhat inclined to sulk when Sibyl appeared, now smiled, and pulled out a chair.
“Sit down,” he said; “you had better sit there, near Mabel; she’s pouring out tea. She’s the boss, you know.”
“What’s a boss?” said Sibyl.