“Dear Mr Durrant!” echoed Harriet in a tone of great contempt. “He ought not to expect a girl like me to ride a donkey; it is a sort of reproach to me, that it is!”
“Oh, Harriet! I never knew anyone quite so kind as Mr Durrant; and then you will vex little Ralph; think of that; you do love Ralph.”
“Yes,” said Harriet, thoughtfully. “On the whole, I love him very much. I never cared for a little boy before; he is quite the nicest child I have ever come across, but there are some things even about him that I cannot bear. I want him to stop calling me his naughty school-mother. It is like for ever and for ever bringing up my little adventure with him. I am going to speak to him about that. He shan’t go on with it; I mean to put a stop to it.”
“Oh, but he does it so innocently,” said Jane.
“It vexes me,” interrupted Harriet, “and he shan’t go on with it. Then I do want him not to show such a marked preference for Robina when I am by. I wish—I do wish—”
“What?” said Jane.
“That I could yet get him really to love me best. The fact is this, Janie. I don’t like Robina one little scrap more than I ever liked her; and if I could open Ralph’s eyes, and get him to see that she is not a bit nice really; why—that would be something worth living for.”
“I don’t know how you are to manage it,” said Jane; “and I think,” she added, “even if you could do it, it would be a very horrid thing to do.”
“Oh! what a goody you are turning into!” was Harriet’s response. “Well, I am going to put my wits in soak; I generally think out a way when I have pondered it long enough. Oh, trust me, Janie; and all I want from you is this—”
“What?” asked Janie.