“Ah, it isn’t a joke, beloved,” said Mrs. Hurst. “It is a great grief to me. You are not sixteen: I had so hoped for two years yet at school for you.”
“I wouldn’t be anything but a dunce if I went to school for twenty years,” stated her daughter, with shining eyes. “I know enough now for life in the country, and that’s what I’m always going to have. Oh, Mother, I’m so glad! I’m sorry you aren’t, but I can’t help it: I’m just glad all over!”
She stopped abruptly, looking at her mother’s white face.
“Now, you’re just going to lie down again while I clear the table and wash up,” she said. “Then I’ll put a big log on the fire, and you’re going to tell me everything.”
CHAPTER IV
PLANS AND PROBLEMS
“There isn’t so much to tell you,” Mrs. Hurst said. The room was tidy, the kitchen work done; Robin had made up the fire and pulled her mother’s couch close to it. She sat on the hearthrug near her; so near that Mrs. Hurst could put out her hand and touch the shining red hair.
“I don’t know anything, you see,” Robin answered. “Was he—was Uncle Donald ill long, Mummie?”
“Only about ten days. He had been very trying for over a month: his temper was worse than ever, and nothing I could do seemed to please him. I think the poor old man must have been suffering, but he would never tell me anything, and there were times when I was almost in despair. Then one night he would not eat, and when I took him some nourishment after he had gone to bed he flew into a violent passion and shouted at me until even Danny woke and came running to see what was the matter.”
Robin set her lips.
“I suppose I ought to be sorry that he’s dead,” she said. “But I can’t be, Mother—I just can’t. He was a bad, cruel old man. That anyone should speak to you like that—!”