“For shame, Hector,” said Flora; “you know that poor old Moggy is no more mad than yourself.”
“Possibly not, sweet sister, but as you often tell me that I am mad, and as I never deny the charge, it seems to me that you have said nothing to vindicate the old woman’s character for sanity.”
“Poor thing,” said Flora, turning from her brother, and speaking with warmth to Fred; “if you knew how much that unhappy old creature has suffered, you would not be surprised to find her somewhat cross at times. She is one of my people, and I’m very glad to find that you take an interest in her.”
“‘My people!’ Flora then takes an interest in the poor,” thought the observant Lucy. Another link was added to the chain of friendship.
“Do tell us about her, please,” cried George. “There is nothing that I love so much as a story—especially a horrible one, with two or three dreadful murders to chill one’s blood, and a deal of retributive justice to warm it up again. I’m dying to know about old Moggy.”
“Are you?” said Flora saucily. “I’m glad to hear that, because I mean to keep you in a dying state. I will tell the story as a dead secret to Lucy, when I take her to see my poor people, and you sha’n’t hear it for weeks to come.”
George cast up his eyes in affected despair, and said with a groan, that he “would endeavour to exist notwithstanding.”
“Oh! I know all about old Moggy,” cried Jacky with energy.
Everyone looked at the boy in surprise. In the midst of the foregoing dialogue he had suddenly ceased to tempt his fate, and sat down quietly with a hand on each knee and his eyes fixed intently on Flora Macdonald—to the surprise and secret joy of his mother, who, being thus relieved from anxiety on his account, had leisure to transfer the agony of her attention to the boat.
“What do you know about her, child?” asked Flora.