“Well we shall see,” said Mrs Oswald; “and what about Adelaide Fendie, Hope?”
“Oh, Adelaide Fendie is coming home; the school is not good enough for her; and they’re going to have a governess at Mount Fendie, for her, and Victoria, and little Fred—Poor governess! I am very sorry for her, I am sure, whoever she is. I would far rather keep a school like—”
Mrs Oswald interposed hastily, “Is it some one from Edinburgh, Hope?”
“No, indeed, mamma. Only somebody from England that Mrs Heavieliegh knows; and I almost hope she will be as stupid as they are, for if she is not, they will kill her. I would not live at Mount Fendie for all the world; and no one can teach Adelaide anything, except to do Berlin work, and thump, thump upon the piano.”
“Come, Hope, this is too bad,” said her smiling father. “I hope you can thump upon the piano to some purpose yourself. We must hear you to-night, you know.”
“I don’t care about it, father,” said Hope; “it is very dreary, except folk will just let me play my own tunes; but then there’s these awful waltzes and things, that were never made for anything but people’s fingers. Adelaide could play them for days, father; but they make me dizzy; for there’s nothing but noise in them.”
“I am afraid you are quite giddy enough already, Hope,” said Mr Oswald.
“Miss Swinton says I am sensible,” said Hope, with offended dignity. “Miss Swinton says she can trust me with the little ones better than Miss Mansfield,—and Miss Mansfield’s seventeen!”
The father and mother laughed; but Miss Swinton’s testimony to Hope’s good sense pleased them nevertheless.
“Adelaide is coming home in a week,” said Hope, “and she said the new governess would be at the Mount before her. I am to go up every day, Adelaide says, if you will let me, mother; and I would like to go sometimes, but not so often; and I want to go to Mossgray, to see old Mrs Mense, and the Laird; and up to Friarsford to Maggie Irving, and down to the Waterfoot to see the Flower of Fendie; but first of all—”