His mother seized him by the arm and stared into his face with eager eyes. She was the prettiest little mother in the world, and Mildred did well to be proud of her.
“Robbie!” she cried excitedly, “am I a good mother? Have I been kind to you? Do you love me with all your heart?”
Robbie pranced about in an agony of emotion.
“Boo—hoo—hoo! Yes, I does! Boo—hoo—”
“And supposing a rich old lady came one day—very, very rich, Robbie—with houses, and gardens, and carriages, and horses, and ponies—beautiful little, long-tailed ponies, and she said, ‘Come and live with me, Robbie, and be my own little boy?’ What would you say? Would you go away and leave poor Mother all alone?”
“No—ow—ow! Don’t wants no old ladies! Kick a nasty old pony over the wall!”
The more his mother wept, the louder Robbie roared. They clung together sobbing and crying until the sound penetrated to the lower regions, and the maid-of-all-work crept up the uncarpeted stair and listened, agape with horror.
Then suddenly Mrs Moore shook Robbie off, bounded out of the room, and called to the servant to run down the road to summon Mrs Ross to come at once—at once, and to bring pencil and paper, so that she might write down the words of a letter to be dictated from an upper window.
It was easy to see from whom Mildred had inherited her impetuosity. Poor Mrs Ross was bewildered by the torrent of words which were hurled at her head the moment she arrived. She was obliged to write four separate letters before Mrs Moore was satisfied that she had said the right thing in the right way.
The letter seemed fated to cause excitement from beginning to end. When it arrived at The Deanery, Lady Sarah put up her eye-glasses to read it, only to drop them a moment later with a cry of astonishment. She gasped, and panted, and gasped, and panted again, while the other occupants of the room stared aghast, not knowing what to make of such behaviour.