“I was dre’ffle lonely,” said Bud, who, in fact, had never known a moment’s dullness across the whole Atlantic. “There was I leaving my native land, perhaps never to set eyes on its shores evermore, and coming to a far country I didn’t know the least thing about. I was leaving all my dear young friends, and the beautiful Mrs Molyneux, and her faithful dog Dodo, and—” here she squeezed a tear from her eyes, and stopped to think of circumstances even more touching.
“My poor wee hen!” cried Kate, distressed. “Don’t you greet, and I’ll buy you something.”
“And I didn’t know what sort of uncle and aunties they might be here,—whether they’d be cruel and wicked or not, or whether they’d keep me or not. Little girls most always have cruel uncles and aunties—you can see that in the books.”
“You were awful stupid about that bit of it,” said the maid emphatically. “I’m sure anybody could have told you about Mr Dyce and his sisters.”
“And then it was so stormy,” proceeded Bud quickly, in search of more moving considerations. “I made a poem about that too,—I just dashed it off; the first verse goes—
‘The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast—’
but I forget the rest, ’cept that
‘—they come to wither there
Away from their childhood’s land.’
The waves were mountains high, and whirled over the deck, and—”
“My goodness, you would get all wet!” said Kate, putting her hand on Bud’s shoulder to feel if she were dry yet. Honest tears were in her own eyes at the thought of such distressing affairs.