“But Miss Swinton is very kind, is she not?” said Mrs Oswald.
“Miss Swinton is always good to everybody,” said Hope promptly, “but when little Mary sees us all going away, and nobody coming for her, she greets—”
“She greets, Hope!” said Mr Oswald, holding up his hand in reproof.
“Well, father,” said the brave Hope, “it is a far better word than cries:—cries! as if folk had only cut their finger! and Miss Swinton says our tongue is as good a tongue as the English, and we need not think shame of it.”
Mr Oswald submitted to be defeated, well-pleased and smiling—
“And what does Miss Swinton do at the vacations, Hope?” asked her mother.
“I don’t know, mother; sometimes she stays at home, sometimes she goes away to some of those places that the Glasgow girls are always talking about—Rothesay, or somewhere about the Clyde. She was there with Miss Buchanan last year; and oh, mamma, I had almost forgotten—how is our Helen Buchanan? I must go to see her to-day.”
The banker’s brow contracted suddenly. His wife was wary, and a good politician; she took no notice of Hope’s unsuitable inquiry.
“Miss Swinton went to stay with one of the young ladies, did she? does she do that often, Hope?”
“Sometimes, mother; they are all so fond of her—and I don’t think she has ever been in the south country. Perhaps she would come to Fendie, if you were to ask her, mother, and bring little Mary Wood.”