By far the most timid of all was a gentle little thing of seven years old, got up like a lady; white frock, black sash and sleeve ribbons. She was delicate-featured, blue-eyed, had curling flaxen hair. It was Nettie Trewin. Far superior she looked to all of them; out of place, in fact, amongst so many coarser natures. Her little arm and hand trembled as she clung to Miss Timmens’ gown.
“Senseless little thing,” cried Miss Timmens, “to be afraid in a beautiful room like this, and with all these kind friends around her! Would you believe it, Mr. Johnny, that I could hardly get her here? Afraid, she said, to come without mother!”
“Oh, Nettie! Why, you are going to have lots of fun! Is mother better this evening?”
“Yes,” whispered Nettie, venturing to take a peep at me through her wet eyelashes.
The order of the day was this. Tea at once, consisting of as much bread-and-butter and plum-cake as they could eat; games afterwards. The savoury pies and tartlets later on; more cake to wind up with, which, if they had no room for, they might carry home.
After all signs of tea had disappeared, and our neighbours, the Coneys, had come in, and several round rings were seated on the floor at “Hunt-the-Slipper,” I, chancing to draw within earshot, found Miss Timmens had opened out her grievance to the Squire—the parson’s interference with the school.
“It would be reversing the proper and natural order of things, as I look upon it,” she was saying, “to give an exalted education to those who must get their living by the sweat of their brow; as servants, and what not. Do you think so, sir?”
“Think so! of course I think so,” spluttered the Squire, taking up the subject hotly as usual. “It’s good for them to read and write well, to add up figures, and know how to sew and clean, and wash and iron. That’s the learning they want, whether they are to pass their lives serving in families, or as the wives of working men.”
“Yes, sir,” acquiesced Miss Timmens, in a glow of satisfaction; “but you may as well try to beat common sense into a broomstick as into Mr. Bruce. The other day—what, is it you again, Nettie!” she broke off, as the little white-robed child sidled up and hid her head in what appeared to be her haven of refuge—the folds of the purple gown. “Never was such a child as this, for shyness. When put to play with the rest, she’ll not stay with them. What do you think you are good for?”—rather wrathfully. “Do you suppose the gentlefolk are going to eat you, Nettie?”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, little lassie. What child is it?” added the Squire, struck with her appearance.