It was the pleasant hour of recess. What a beautiful calm rested over the place! The sun shone forth from a cloudless sky; the trees were in their full summer green; there were shadow and sunlight intermingled all over the lovely old place. The house itself was so old and the walls so thick that great heat could never penetrate; and Mrs Hazlitt chose as her place of confidence her own tiny oak parlour where she sat when she wanted to rest and did not wish to be intruded upon.
“Deborah,” she said on this occasion, “will you come with me into the parlour? I suppose the children are all right, and you need not trouble about them. That good-natured girl, Penelope Carlton, will look after them if you ask her.”
“I don’t know,” replied Deborah; “she is up in her room writing. She said she had a special letter she wanted to write, but I have no doubt they won’t get into any mischief. I will just go and talk to them for a minute and put them on their honour.”
“Do, Deborah,” said Mrs Hazlitt, “and then come back to me. Don’t tell any one what you are specially doing; just come here; I shall be waiting for you.”
The governess withdrew, to return in the course of a few minutes.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I went first of all to Penelope, but she seemed rather fluttered at being disturbed and said that she always did suppose that recess was at her own disposal. But the children will be quite good; they will play in the woods and keep out of the sunshine.”
“Then that is all right,” said Mrs Hazlitt. “And what is Penelope doing in her room, Deborah?”
“She is writing a letter.”
“A letter?” said Mrs Hazlitt. “Did you see her writing one?”
“Oh, yes—at least I think so.”