“Did you speak to her, Emma Stone?” asked Miss Timmens, after listening to these concluding words.
“Yes, governess. I asked her why she was not at play, and why she was hiding there.”
“Well, what did she say?”
“Not anything,” replied Emma Stone. “She turned her head away as if she didn’t want to be talked to.”
Miss Timmens took a long, keen look at Emma Stone. This young lady, it appeared, was rather in the habit of romancing; and the governess thought she might be doing it then.
“I vow to goodness I saw her,” interrupted the girl, before Miss Timmens had got out more than half a doubt: and her tone was truthful enough. “I’m not telling no story, ’m. I thought Nettie was crying.”
“Well, it is a strange thing you should have forgotten it until this moment, Emma Stone.”
“Please, ’m, it were through the pies,” pleaded Emma.
It was time to depart. Bonnets and shawls were put on, and the whole of them filed out, accompanied by Miss Timmens, Mrs. Hill, and Maria Lease: good old motherly Dame Coney saying she hoped they would find the child safe in bed between the blankets, and that her mother would have given her some hot drink.
Our turn for supper came now. We took it partly standing, just the fare that the others had had, with bread-and-cheese added for the Squire and old Coney. After that, we all gathered round the fire in the dining-room, those two lighting their pipes.