Meta drew a long face. Papa indulged her more than mamma did, especially in the matter of breakfast. Mamma was apt to say such and such a dainty was not good for Meta: papa helped her to it, whether good for her or not.
Maria put her down. “Place her at the table, Margery. It is cold this morning, is it not?” she added, as Meta was lifted on to a chair.
“Cold!” returned Margery. “Where can your feelings be, ma’am? It’s a hot summer’s day.”
Maria sat down herself to the breakfast-table. Several letters lay before her. On a Sunday morning the letters were brought into the dining-room, and Pierce was in the habit of laying them before his master’s place. To-day, he had laid them before Maria’s.
She took them up. All, except three, were addressed to the firm. Two of these bore George’s private address; the third was for Margery.
“Here is a letter for you, Margery,” she said, putting the others down, that they might be carried into the Bank.
“For me!” returned Margery in surprise. “Are you sure, ma’am?”
Maria handed her the letter, and Margery, searching her pocket for her spectacles, opened it without ceremony, and stood reading it.
“I dare say! what else wouldn’t they like!” was her ejaculatory remark.
“Is it from Scotland, Margery?” asked her mistress.