'Philippa cried awfully when she first came,' said Kathleen. 'She really did nothing but cry.
'And you were good to her—I am sure you were, as she is so fond of you,' said her aunt.
Kathie blushed a little.
'Her mother asked me to be kind to her,' she said, 'and I tried to be because I promised. But I didn't care much for her at first, aunty. I didn't understand her caring so dreadfully, and you mustn't think me horrid, for I do understand better now—it bothered me. But she got so fond of me—she fancied I was so much kinder than I really was, that—that I got very fond of her. And I think I've learnt some things from her—the same sort of things you make me feel, aunty.'
This was a wonderfully 'sentimental' speech to come from thoughtless Kathie. But both her hearers 'understood.'
'She must be a dear little girl,' said Miss Clotilda again. 'I should love to have her here, if—'
'I know, aunty,' Neville interrupted. 'It is the expense. I know it is already a great deal for you to have us.'
'No, dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'it really is not so. People—my old neighbours and friends—are so kind. They are always sending presents just now. And one other little girl could not make much difference. It is more a sort of shrinking that I have from explaining things to strangers—a sort of false shame, perhaps. It should all have been so different.'