“I hope they won’t,” I said.
“They’re certain to. They just worship him in the school. You haven’t the least idea how popular he is. They just adore him. He’s such a splendid teacher, and so sympathetic over a difficulty. He is a great man, there’s no doubt of that.”
But I was not in a humour to hear his praises.
“Let’s think of our own dear little mother to-night,” I said.
“All right, Rachel.”
“Come up with me to my room and I’ll show you her portrait.”
“All right, old girl.”
We went up together. I thought if Alex would stand my friend—if he would lean on me as a very superior sort of sister, and allow me to take the place of sister and mother—then I could endure things. Father’s new wife might go her own way, and I would go mine. I just wanted Alex at least to understand me. Charley was a good boy, but he was hopeless. Still, I had a vague sort of hope that Alex would keep on my side.
When we got to my room I lit all the bits of candle, and made quite a strong light; and then I opened the miniature frame, and told Alex to kneel down by me and I would show it to him. He looked at it very earnestly. He himself was strangely like the miniature, but I don’t think the likeness struck him particularly. Nevertheless, he had his sensibilities, and his lips quivered, and his soft, gentle brown eyes looked their very softest and gentlest now as they fixed themselves on my face.
“Poor mother!” he said. He bent his head and kissed the glass which covered the pictured face.