Miss Clotilda had left off her darning in the interest of the conversation. For a minute or two no one spoke. Then with a little effort Miss Clotilda seemed to recall her thoughts to the present.
'She must be a very nice child—that little Philippa,' she said, 'and very unselfish. It is not many children who would be able to think of anything but their own affairs in her place just now. I do feel for her, poor dear, having to go back to school, and all her companions away.'
She hesitated, as if on the point of saying more, but no words came. Then she took up her darning again.
'I wish'—Kathie began, and then she too stopped short. Neville glanced at her.
'I believe I know what you wish,' he said. 'And,' he went on boldly, 'I believe aunty is thinking of the very same thing.'
Again the poor tablecloth came off badly. Miss Clotilda let it fall, and in her turn she looked at both the children.
'I daresay you do know what was in my mind, Neville,' she said. 'It would be almost unnatural not to think of it.'
'You mean,' said Kathie, half timidly, 'if we could ask poor Phil to come here—if you could, I should say, aunty.'
'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda, 'that was what I was thinking. I do feel so for the poor dear child. I know so well, so sadly well, what it is to be alone in that way. My mother, you know, dears, your grandmother, died when I was thirteen, and till her death I had never been separated from her. And then I was sent to school altogether, holidays and all, for three years, for your grandfather went abroad. I did not even see my little brother—dear little David—for all that time, for one of our aunts who had children of her own took care of him. It did not so much matter to him, for he was only a year old when our mother died, and so he was only four when we were together again. And it seems to him—I do like to feel that—that I was always with him. But for me those three years were—really—dreadful. Even now I can scarcely bear to think of them;' and Miss Clotilda gave a little shiver.