“Poor girl! I don’t think she is a very lively companion,” mamma agreed. “But then she has no mother, and her aunt is a dull sort of woman.”
It never struck me that, whether I cared for her or not, an afternoon among my pretty toys and books, and other luxuries, might have been a pleasant change for Anna, even if she were rather commonplace and very overworked.
“I wish,” I remarked, “I do wish there were some nicer people at Elmwood. I wish you knew some nice companions for me, mamma.”
“So do I, darling. But you know, dearest, how different all would have been if—” But here there came a sort of break in mamma’s voice, and she turned away.
I gave myself an impatient wriggle; not so that she could see it, but still it was horrid of me.
“I know what she was going to say,” I thought; ”‘if Eva and the others had lived.’ But they didn’t live. I wish mamma would leave off thinking about them and think more about me who am alive.”
In my heart I did feel tenderly for mamma about her lost children; but I was so selfish that whatever came before me, even for a moment, annoyed me.
I sighed again more deeply. I have no doubt mamma thought it was out of sympathy with her. But just then there came the sound of wheels—faintly, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house, and the street at the front; up I jumped, delighted at the interruption.
“It’s papa,” I said, as I ran off to welcome him.