“Oh, you tiresome child! You have lessons on the brain: yes, of course you would go on with them, and learn more than at Miss Lloyd’s. No, I am not vexed with you; it is right and necessary that you should feel as you do. I wonder, by the bye, how that little fellow is—the little Waldron boy. I hope his adventure has done him no lasting harm; he did look so very thin and delicate. Perhaps the hearing of those unfortunate people’s troubles has made me think of him again.”
“Might I write to his sister to ask how he is, Aunt Mildred?” said Claudia. She would have spoken eagerly, for she felt so, but she knew that with Lady Mildred it was best to be calm.
Rather to her surprise the response was almost cordial.
“Yes; I have no objection. It would seem only natural after our having had him with us. Tell the girl I should like to hear that his exposure in the snow has done him no harm.”
“Thank you, aunt; I will write at once,” said Claudia, flushing with pleasure.
“What do you thank me for, my dear?” said Lady Mildred, with a rather curious smile. “It is rather I that should thank you for writing the letter for me.”
But Claudia saw that she was not vexed, though she could not quite understand her.
“Aunt Mildred is rather incomprehensible sometimes,” she said to herself; “but it is no use minding; she is so very good and kind.”
For it was not by any means Claudia’s way to worry or perplex herself with useless puzzles or wonderings; her heart and mind were too full of pleasanter and more profitable things.
She was not able, much as she wished to do so, to write to Charlotte that day. For she had to go out with her aunt, to write some notes to friends for her, and various other small pieces of business to attend to which made it evening before she had any leisure; and in the evening Lady Mildred disliked to see her occupied. And the next day was Sunday, when, as everybody knows, all the postal arrangements in London go to sleep.