“Mamma! Mamma, dear! Mamma’s crying for poor Uncle Thomas!”
“No,” said Maria in the bitterness of her heart. “If we were but where Uncle Thomas is, we should be happy. I cry for us who are left, Meta!”
“Hey-day! and what on earth’s the meaning of this? Do you think this is the way to get strong, Mrs. George Godolphin?”
They had not heard him come in. Meta, always ready for visitors, scuffled off her mamma’s lap gleefully, and Mr. Snow drew a chair in front of Maria and watched her trying to dry away her tears. He moved a little to the right, that the light of the lamp which was behind him might fall upon her face.
“Now just you have the goodness to tell me what it is that’s the matter.”
“I—I am low-spirited, I think,” said Maria, her voice subdued and weak now.
“Low-spirited!” echoed Mr. Snow. “Then I’d get high-spirited, if I were you. I wish there never had been such a thing as spirits invented, for my part! A nice excuse it is for you ladies to sigh away half your time instead of being rational and merry, as you ought to be. A woman of your sense ought to be above it, Mrs. George Godolphin.”
“Mr. Snow,” interrupted a troublesome little voice, “papa’s gone back to London. He went without saying good-bye to Meta!”
“Ah! Miss Meta had been naughty, I expect.”
Meta shook her head very decisively in the negative, but Mr. Snow had turned to Maria.