Their new friend gasped.
“But you’re not grown up; you’re only little girls,” she faltered. “Little girls only work if their mothers are very poor. You don’t look a bit like poor people.”
“We’re not exactly poor,” Dulcie explained, “but there are—reasons why we don’t want to live at home any more, so we’ve come away to try to find a situation. We don’t mind working hard, and there are really a good many things we can do. We’ve made our own beds and dusted our rooms ever since Liz—I mean for quite a long time, and we can wash dishes, and cook a little, too. If we could have a cook-book, I think we would manage very well.”
The look in the little stranger’s eyes had changed from astonishment to admiration.
“I think you are very clever,” she said. “I wish I could do useful things like that, but I shouldn’t like to leave my home. I think I should die if I had to go away from Mamma and Papa.”
“I’m sure you will never have to do it,” Dulcie reassured her. “You see, it’s quite different with us. Our mamma is dead, and our papa—oh, well, we’d rather not talk about it, but it’s all very sad, and we don’t want to be burdens any longer. Let’s talk some more about the rabbits.”
Their new friend nodded comprehendingly.
“I know how you feel,” she said. “I hate talking about sad things, too. I don’t like sad stories, either. Once Mamma read me about little Paul Dombey, and I cried so much I had a headache.”
“I wish we had a mamma,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “Children are never burdens to their mothers. I think yours must be nice; you talk so much about her.”
“She’s the loveliest lady in the world. She’s so good that everybody loves her. Haven’t you ever heard about her?”