“Oh! if Harry likes her that is the chief thing,” said Rose, with a shrug. “It won’t matter much to the rest of us—I mean to Graeme and me.”
“It will matter very much to us,” said Graeme, “and I know I shall love her dearly, and so will you, Rosie, when she is our sister, and I mean to write to Harry to-morrow—and to her, too, perhaps.”
“She wants very much to know you, and I am sure you will like each other,” said Mr Millar looking deprecatingly at Rose, who was not easy or comfortable in her mind any one could see.
“Just tell me one thing, Rose,” said Mr Snow. “How came you to suppose that—”
But the question was not destined to be answered by Rose, at least not then. A matter of greater importance was to be laid before her, for the door opened suddenly, and Hannah put in her head.
“Where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, Rose? I have taken as many steps as I want to after it; if you had put it back in its place it would have paid, I guess. It would have suited me better, and I guess it would have suited better all round.”
Her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and decided crossness. Rose was a little hysterical, Graeme thought, or she never would have laughed about such an important matter in Hannah’s face. For Hannah knew her own value, which was not small in the household, and she was not easily propitiated when a slight was given or imagined, as no one knew better than Rose. And before company, too!—company with whom Hannah had not been “made acquainted,” as Hannah, and the sisterhood generally in Merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. It was dreadful temerity on Rose’s part.
“Oh! Hannah, I forgot all about it.”
But the door was suddenly closed. Rose hastened after her in haste and confusion.
Mr Snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently not aware that anything particular had been happening, for he turned suddenly to Mr Millar, and said,—