“Mine is the best that is known,” said Susie, in her quick voice, cutting her orange peel as she spoke into fine, almost imperceptible wafers. “You don’t slake your own marmalade, do you?” she said.
“No; I really haven’t time; and that reminds me—Bridget is leaving. It is too bad: she is such a good faithful creature, and I don’t know how to replace her.”
Susie helped herself to some more orange peel and continued her work.
“You don’t know of any one you could recommend, do you, Susie?” said Mrs Fortescue.
“No,” said Susie bluntly. “I do not.”
Mrs Fortescue heaved a deep sigh. She quite understood what Susie Arbuthnot meant to imply by her brief words. Even if she did know a nice honest girl she would not send her to Mrs Fortescue.
“Susie,” said Mrs Fortescue, after a pause, “I fear, I greatly fear that I was a little hard on dear Florence. I have come here to tell you so.”
Susie laid down her knife and raised her honest brown eyes to fix them fully on Mrs Fortescue’s face. The widow pushed her chair round so that the light should not fall too full on her countenance.
“Yes,” she continued, “and I have come here to own my fault. I fear your father was deeply annoyed with me. Is that true?”
”‘Annoyed’ is not exactly the word,” said Susie, in a low tone.