“I suppose Louis has been proposing to you again,” was Agneta’s rather cross comment. “Lizabeth, what on earth are you crying for?”
“Oh, Neta, do you hate me?” said Elizabeth in a very tired voice.
Agneta knelt down beside her, and began to pinch her arm.
“I would if I could, but I can’t,” she observed viciously. “I’ve tried, of course, but I can’t do it by myself, and it’s not the sort of thing you can expect religion to be any help in. As if you didn’t know that Louis and I simply love your littlest finger-nail, and that we’d do anything for you, and that we think it an honour to be your friends, and—oh, Lizabeth, if you don’t stop crying this very instant, I shall pour all the water out of that big flower-vase down the back of your neck!”
CHAPTER VIII
EDWARD SINGS
“What ails you, Andrew, my man’s son,
That you should look so white,
That you should neither eat by day,
Nor take your rest by night?”
“I have no rest when I would sleep,