“If you’d heard their screams as we heard them down in the brew-house, you wouldn’t have much doubt of that. Both Libbie and I thought they must have set themselves on fire, and be calling out of the flames.”
“I suppose Di was dreadfully stung,” said Faith.
“I tell you that it was only a wonder that she didn’t die, then and there,” said Nanny, “what with the shock, and the pain. As it is, she hasn’t come to herself yet. But there, I repeat it, I don’t pity her, not as I do Mrs. Busson.”
“I suppose Mr. Busson takes a long time to get over things,” said Fay.
“I should think he’d take a long time to get over this thing. There, however the poor old lady will make it right with him, I can’t think. Never did I see anyone fly all to bits, as he’s done. ’Twouldn’t do Master Andrew any harm to have a taste of his displeasure.”
“Oh, but he won’t beat Andrew, will he, Nanny? You won’t let him,” implored Faith.
“I would let him, gladly, if I could,” was the merciless rejoinder—as a matter-of-fact, Nanny had taken effectual measures to prevent such a thing happening—“only I believe that it would break Mrs. Busson’s heart, if anyone laid a finger on him in her house, and I’m sure I don’t want her troubles added to.”
“But,” faltered Phoena, “shall we all be sent away to-morrow?”
“More than likely. All that is, but Miss Di. I shouldn’t be surprised if the farmer sends her to the nearest hospital. But now I must go back to her room; I’ve promised that I’ll sit up the night with her. And the sooner that you two get to bed, and out of the way of doing fresh mischief, the better. Good-night to you both.”
“Good-night, Nanny,” responded the girls. They were too dejected to resent the glaring injustice implied in her last sentence.