It was Emily who made that observation. Emily who had gone into the family nineteen years ago as nurse to the eldest child. She had stuck by them in their reverse of fortune—indeed it had never entered either her mind or theirs, so completely had the long service made her one of them, that she could do anything else—and she now occupied the position of "general" in the upstairs kitchen of Bridge Street. She was chopping suet at the present moment, standing apart, at a side table, because Bessie had declared that to see the suet cut made her feel ill.
"Miss Bessie's more nice than wise," Emily commented; but she removed her material from the young lady's vicinity.
"I'm glad to know that I'm nice, at any rate," Bessie said, with her head on one side. "So long as I'm nice, Emily—?"
"Oh there's more than me in the world that think you that, I suppose, Miss
Bessie."
"I don't know, I'm sure," Miss Bessie languidly murmured. "I only know I'm very tired."
"Give up for to-night then, dear, and go to bed."
"Nonsense, mama. As if I could leave you all! Why should not I work as well as poor Mr. Gibbon, for instance?"
"Some are made for work and some aren't, I suppose," that gentleman said, with a side glance at Bessie's white hands. "I'm one of the workers. I don't mind tackling your nutmegs after I've finished my lemons, if you'll say the word, Miss Bessie."
"Mama, I wonder what Mr. Boult would say if he came in now and found me working like a slave at ten o'clock at night?"
"Nothing complimentary, dear, I fear."