“Yes, I suppose so. She was just such another child. Ah! how the years pass!”
“I shall grow yet, I have no doubt,” said Frederica.
“Ah! well! we will hope so. And be quick about it. If you were only as tall as your sister at home now, we might strain a point, and call your education finished, and send you home to your mother. You must have learned quantities of things all these years, eh?”
“Oh! quantities!” said Frederica gravely. “But, Mr St. Cyr, I am not very big, I know. Still I could be a comfort to mama all the same.”
“And she needs comfort you think?”
“It gives her pleasure to have us at home.”
“And she has not so many pleasures, these days,” said Mr St. Cyr. “But it would not do, I fear, not yet. Why, you are a mere child! I had no idea! Not nearly so mature as her mother was at her age,” continued he, not to her, but to himself. “Well, so much the better. The more a child the better. The longer a child the better. She is so like her mother, too. The same sweet smiling eyes. Ah! there are so great mistakes made in this life!”
“Mr St. Cyr,” said Frederica in a moment, “I am very little, I know, but Mrs Glencairn says I have a great deal of good sense, if I would only use it; and I daresay if you were to tell papa that I have learned enough of things, and that I ought to stay at home with mama and Selina, I don’t think he would object.”
Mr St. Cyr only answered by that wonderful shrug of his shoulders, which he could make to express anything—surprise, doubt, utter disbelief; and Frederica went on:
“Indeed, Mrs Glencairn thinks I am very sensible, and so does Miss Robina. Will you tell papa to let me stay at home, Mr St. Cyr?”