“Never mind why. I don’t like her. That is enough for you to know.”
“But, mother, if she is father’s daughter and my sister, you ought to like her,” pleaded Mildred, very much in earnest.
“How dare you say that! You must never say it again—you are a naughty, cruel child to say such things!” exclaimed Mrs. Fausset, beginning to cry,
“Why naughty? why cruel? O, mother!” and Mildred cried too.
She clasped her arms round her mother’s neck and sobbed aloud.
“Dear mother, indeed I’m not naughty,” she protested, “but Bell said Fay was papa’s daughter. ‘Of course she’s his daughter,’ Bell said; and if she’s father’s daughter, she’s my sister, and it’s wicked not to love one’s sister. The psalm I was learning yesterday says so, mother. ‘Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!’ And it means sisters just the same, Miss Colville said, when I asked her; and I do love Fay. I can’t help loving her.”
“You must never speak her name again to me,” said Mrs. Fausset resolutely. “I shall leave off loving you if you pester me about that odious girl!”
“Then wasn’t it true what Bell said?”
“Of course not.”
“Mother, would it be wrong for papa to have a daughter?” asked Mildred, perplexed by this mysterious resentment for which she could understand no cause,