“I will be very prudent and sensible, mother,” promised Hope, with a reservation.
Mrs Oswald hesitated still: the impatient Hope volunteered to thread her mother’s refractory needle, and urged her petition still more warmly. A slight fugitive smile crossed the good mother’s face—then she became very grave.
“Helen’s father died long ago; he used to be very fond of you when you were a baby, Hope; but you cannot remember him.”
“Oh, yes! was he not very thin and pale, mother, with a white high forehead, like Mossgray?—I do mind him.”
“Hush, Hope! you are interrupting me now. He was a very delicate, gentle man, this poor Mr Buchanan; but he was not at all like Mossgray, and when he died, your father and he were not good friends.”
“Yes, mother, I know that,” said the disappointed Hope; “but is that all?”
“Wait a little; do not be so impatient!” said Mrs Oswald. “And foolish people said that your father’s sternness killed this delicate man. I believe Mrs Buchanan thinks so still.”
Hope started.
“Then Helen will not be friends with us because my father was poor Mr Buchanan’s enemy:—is that it, mother?”
“No, Hope, that is not it. Helen knows that her father was a weak man, and Helen is a wise, good girl, and would not do anything so foolish; but Helen is only a poor schoolmistress, Hope, and your brother William, you know, will be rich.”