“Have you said your grace?” said Miss Fleet.
“Yes,” replied Phyllis. “I said it in a whisper. What else do you want me to do?”
“I wish you to listen to me—to be attentive and no longer impertinent. I’m tired of punishing you. You have been a very naughty girl, but I am willing to forgive you and to restore you to my favour, provided you do what I wish.”
“What is that?” asked Phyllis in a guarded voice.
“Come here, Phyllis.”
Miss Fleet drew the little girl towards her. Her voice had softened; some of the severity had left it.
Phyllis was the kind of child to be easily touched by kindness—no one could drive her, but affection and love could always guide her. Miss Fleet almost caressed the small hand which Phyllis stole into hers.
“I hate not being friends with you,” she said. “You have been my constant care and my constant pleasure for the last three years. Why do you suddenly turn against me?”
“I don’t,” said Phyllis. “I have always liked you—very well, that is; but you don’t understand me.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Phyllis. You are only a little girl of twelve years old. I am three times your age.”