“Well, I won’t,” said Lord Grayleigh, laughing.
“I ’spect father will write you a most loving letter about this,” said Sibyl. “Won’t he be ’sprised? And did you tell mother about me having a ride every morning?”
“I did.”
“And did you speak to her about the food for my pony all being paid for?”
“Yes, everything is arranged. Your pony shall be the best cared for in all London, and you shall ride him every day for half-an-hour before you go to school.”
“Oh, I never go to school,” said Sibyl in a sorrowful voice. “I have a Miss Winstead to teach me. She is the sort that—oh, well, no matter; she means all right, poor thing. She wants the money, so of course she has to stay. She doesn’t suit me a bit, but she wants the money. It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“So it seems, little girl; and now here is the carriage, and the pony has gone off to London already, and will be ready to take you on his back to-morrow morning. Be sure you think of a nice name for him.”
“Father will tell me a name. I won’t let anybody else christen my ownest pony. Good-by, Lord Grayleigh. I like you very much. Say good-by to Mr. Rochester for me—oh, and there is Lady Helen; good-by, Lady Helen—good-by.”
They all kissed Sibyl when they parted from her, and everyone was sorry at seeing the last of her bright little face, and many conjectures went forth with regard to the trouble that was before the child when she got to London. One and all thought that Ogilvie had behaved cruelly, and that his wife was somewhat silly to have yielded to him.
Sibyl went up to town in the highest spirits. She chatted so much on the road that her mother at last told her to hold her tongue.