"You make me burn with curiosity, Hester," cried Amy.
"I dare say, well, I can tell no more."
"You've told too much," said Molly.
"Have I? Well, I'll be mum. Only listen to me, girls. Matilda is coming to St. Dorothy's."
"Yes; worse luck!" groaned one or two.
"When she comes, let's boycott her," said Amy suddenly.
"What fun!" cried the others, clapping their hands. Molly covered her face with hers.
She thought of her bargain in the cathedral; of her prayer to God, of her vow to give herself up to him absolutely, if only he would spare Kate. Did this kind of talk please him? Were uncharitableness, vindictiveness, revenge, the sort of things he delighted in?
"Oh," she said, rising to her feet, and speaking with an effort, "it frightens me to hear you talking like that, girls. If Matilda is bad, we have no right to try and make her worse. Oh, I did hate her myself, but I mustn't! I must get over it. Think of Kate—think of that beautiful picture she drew for us."
"Yes, poor darling," said Amy, with a sob. "I shall never forget how she looked when she talked of her grandfather, the peasant king, and the little cottage, and the flowers, and the sweet life she used to lead."