Still the children were unpleasant to her, and she wished that her sister had not died so inopportunely.
As the two children sat opposite to her in the fly, during their short drive from the country station to the farm, Lydia regarded them attentively.
Maurice was an absolutely fearless child. No one in all his little life had ever said a cross word to Maurice, consequently he considered all the people in the world his slaves, and treated them with lofty indifference. He chattered as unreservedly to Lydia Purcell as he did to Cecile or Toby, and for Maurice in consequence Lydia felt no special dislike; his fearlessness made his charm. But Cecile was different. Cecile was unfortunate enough to win at once this disagreeable woman's antipathy. Cecile had timid and pleading eyes. Her eyes said plainly, "Let me love you."
Now, Mercy's eyes too were pleading; Mercy's eyes too had said, "let me love you," Lydia saw the likeness between Mercy and Cecile at a glance, and she almost hated the little foreign girl for resembling her lost darling.
Old Mrs. Bell further aggravated her dislike; she was so old and invalidish now that her memory sometimes failed.
The morning after the children's arrival, she spoke to Lydia.
"Lydia, that was Mercy's voice I heard just now in the passage."
"Mercy is dead," answered Lydia, contracting her brows in pain.
"But, Lydia, I did hear her voice."
"She is dead, Mistress Bell. That was another child."