“Come along here, then, Ralph, and say it. What do you want?”
“Why, Harriet, I thought—I thought—”
“Now, I tell you what,” said Harriet. “You and I must understand each other. You’re a very good little boy, and I like you enormously, and I’ll be ever so kind to you. You don’t know what luck you’re in to have chosen me for your school-mother. I don’t know what would have come to you if you had chosen any of the others. But you mustn’t be selfish, you know.”
“No,” said Ralph, winking back a tear, “’course not.”
“And there’s another thing. You must never again allow that horrid girl, Robina, to help you with your sums. Now, do you hear? You did look silly over that sum in subtraction; and, of course, Robina, who hates me, was watching her opportunity.”
“I don’t know what opportunity is,” said Ralph.
“Oh, well—I can’t tell you—you’re a baby. Anyhow, don’t do it again, do you hear?”
“Very well, Harriet,” said Ralph.
It was just at that moment, and before a single word could be said with regard to the afternoon of that half-holiday, and the gipsies and all the great, great fun which Ralph so looked forward to, that Miss Ford came up to Harriet, and drew her a little aside.
“Mrs Burton wishes me to say, Harriet, that she will not expect you to join the picnic to-day on account of Ralph Durrant.”