"How tiresome you are, Ethel!" exclaimed Mrs. Castlemaine explosively: for her story was at a most interesting part, and she could not be disturbed during these last few moments of daylight. "Sit down and be quiet. The dear child would do no harm, if you only let her alone."
The dear child had retreated to the open part of the room beyond the table, and was dancing there like a little maniac, flirting over the leaves at Ethel in derision. These petty annoyances are hard to bear. Injustice is hard to bear, even where the temper is naturally as sweet as Ethel's.
"Give me that book," said Ethel, going up to Flora.
"I shan't."
"I tell you, Flora, to give it to me."
Flora was holding the book open above her head, a cover stretched in each hand, and laughing an ugly, mocking laugh. Suddenly, without warning, she dashed it full in Ethel's face: a pretty sharp blow.
Smarting, angry, Ethel seized the tiresome child by the arms. Flora shrieked, and called out in a rage that Ethel was pinching her. Very likely it might be so, for the grasp was a tight one. Flora dropped the book, and struck Ethel in the face with all the force of her wrathful hand. Her pale face tingling with the smart, agitated, indignant, but the book secured, Ethel stood before Mrs. Castlemaine.
"Am I to bear this, mamma?--and you look on and say nothing!"
"You should let her alone: it is your own fault," contemptuously retorted Mrs. Castlemaine.
Justice in that house for her!--unless Mr. Castlemaine was at hand!--Ethel had long ceased to hope for it. But the present moment was unusually bitter; it tried her terribly. She quitted the room; and, seeing the hall-door open, ran out in a storm of tears and sobs, and dashed along the path.