She was a lazy little sinner—lazy, that is, in points where other young ladies of her acquaintance were most industrious. She would not practice, she would not sketch, she resolutely refused to read German with any one, and she openly scoffed at two London misses who visiting at the Rectory talked French to each other on the strength of having spent a winter at Paris, imagining the Dassell natives could not understand their satirical sentences.
She commented on their remarks in English, and so put them to the rout.
"I thought you told me you could not speak French?" said the youngest to her.
"Neither I can any better than you," retorted Dolly; "and I do not call that speaking French."
Altogether an unpleasant young person, and yet Miss Trebasson loved her tenderly, and Mortomley as well as he knew how.
"What is the matter with you to-night, Dolly?" asked Miss Celia one evening when her niece had sat longer than usual looking out into the twilight while the spinster indulged in that nap which "saved candles." "Are not you well? I told you how it would be going out for that long walk in the heat of the day."
"We walked through the woods, aunt, and it was not too hot,—and I am quite well," answered Dolly in her concise manner, still looking out into the gathering night. If she could have seen painted upon that blank background all that was to come, would she have gone forward?
Yes, I think so; I am sure she would. For although Dolly had not been born in the purple, there was not a drop of cowardly blood in her veins.
"Then what is the matter with you?" persisted Miss Celia, who always resented having been permitted to finish her nap in peace.
"I was only thinking, aunt."