“Sacred name!” said Sibyl, in a thoughtful tone. “Oh yes, I won’t call you anything but mother. Mother is most lovely.”
“Well, I hope you will be a good child, and not annoy me as you have been doing.”
“Oh, mother darling, I didn’t mean to vex you, but it was such a temptation, you know. You were never, never tempted, were you, mother? You are made so perfect that you cannot understand what temptation means. I did so long to climb the trees, and I knew you would not like me spoil my pretty frock, and Freda lent me the brown holland. When I saw you, Mums—I mean, mother—I forgot about everything else but just that I had climbed a tree, and that I had been brave, although for a minute I felt a scrap giddy, and I wanted to tell you about what I had done, my ownest, most darling mother.”
Mrs. Ogilvie sprang suddenly to her feet.
“Come here,” she said. There was a sharpness in her tone which arrested the words on Sibyl’s lips. “Look at me, take my hand, look steadily into my face. I have just five minutes to spare, and I wish to say something very grave and important, and you must listen attentively.”
“Oh, yes, mother, I am listening; what is it?”
“Look at me. Are you attending?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Mother, Freda says she will give me a Persian kitten; the Persian cat has two, such beauties, snow-white. May I have one, mother?”
“Attend to me, and stop talking. You think a great deal of me, your mother, and you call me perfect. Now show that you put me in high esteem.”