Fred, a little spoiled, pale, ill-conditioned boy of eight stood on a bench in the garden, plucking the blossoms off an apple-tree. He paused to pull Adelaide’s hair—it was invitingly near him—and then resumed his profitable occupation.
“I thought you would be afraid; but yours is a very pretty one, Hope,” repeated the steady Adelaide, “and Fred is too little yet to have a pony.”
Hope was so engrossed with the pony, its beauties and good qualities, that she had almost forgotten the object of her visit. She recollected herself at last.
“Adelaide, you have not told me, has the young lady come?”
“The young lady!—she means the governess,” said Victoria.
“Oh, yes—we’re all to go in now, to begin school, and you may come with us, Hope. She came yesterday.”
“And do you like her?” said Hope, out of breath.
“I don’t know; we’re all to begin school to-day, and you’re to come with us. But you’re always so quick, Hope Oswald!—how can people know in a day?”
“I know,” said Victoria loudly, “I don’t like her at all. She is so pale, and she speaks so low, and—I don’t like her.”
“Young ladies,” said a clear voice behind them, “your mother desires that you will come in.”