“I was thinking about this very point when you knocked at the door,” he said, presently. “I was wondering if you two children could stay. I want to keep you, and yet I own I am rather fearful of the result. You see, there are so many motherless girls and boys in this house.”
“But we are motherless, too; you should be sorry for us; you should wish to keep us.”
“I am very sorry for you. I have grown to a certain extent already to love you. You interest me much; still, I must be just to you and to my own children. You are not a common, everyday sort of girl, Flower. I don’t wish to flatter you, and I am not going to say whether you are nice or the reverse. But there is no harm in my telling you that you are out of the common. It is probable that you may be extremely difficult to manage, and it is possible that your disposition may—may clash with those of some of the members of my own household. I don’t say that this will be the case, mind, only it is possible. In that case, what would you expect me to do?”
“To keep me,” said Flower, boldly, “and, if necessary, send away the member of the household, for I am a motherless girl, and I have come from a long way off to be with you.”
“I don’t quite think I can do that, Flower. There are many good mothers in England who would train you and love you, and there are many homes where you might do better than here. My own children are placed here by God himself, and I cannot turn them out. Still—what is the matter, my dear child?”
“I think you are unjust; I thought you would be so glad when I said I wanted to stay.”
“So I am glad; and for the present you are here. How long you remain depends on yourself. I have no intention of sending you away at present. I earnestly wish to keep you.”
Another tap came to the study door.
“If you please, sir,” said Alice, “blind Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen, and wants to know most particular if she can see you.”
“How ridiculous!” said Flower, laughing.