“And why do you hate him?”
“Because he struck my dog,” said Eda, while her face flushed and her eyes sparkled; “and he is always rude to everybody, and very, very cruel to the dogs.”
“That is very wrong of Gaspard; but, dearest Eda, do you not remember what is written in God’s Word,—‘Love your enemies?’ It is wrong to hate anybody.”
“I know that, mamma, and I don’t wish to hate Gaspard, but I can’t help it. I wish if I didn’t hate him, but it won’t go away.”
“Well, my pet,” replied Mrs Stanley, pressing the child to her bosom, “but you must pray for him, and speak kindly to him when you meet him, and that will perhaps put it away. And now let us talk of the far-off country that papa was speaking about. I wonder what he has to tell you about it.”
Stanley had been gazing out of the window during the foregoing colloquy, apparently inattentive, though, in reality, deeply interested in what was said. Turning round, he said—
“I was going to tell Eda that you had arranged to follow me to that country next year, and that perhaps you would bring her along with you.”
“Nay, George, you mistake. I did not arrange to do so—you only proposed the arrangement; but, to say truth, I don’t like it, and I can’t make up my mind to let you go without us. I cannot wait till next year.”
“Well, well, Jessie, I have exhausted all my powers of persuasion. I leave it entirely to yourself to do as you think best.”
At this moment the sound of deep voices was heard in the hall, which was separated from Stanley’s quarters by a thin partition of wood. In a few seconds the door opened, and George Barney, the Irish butler and general factotum to the establishment, announced that the “min wos in the hall awaitin’.”