“I have not been idling, and, even if I had, one can’t be always thinking of the Last Great Day.”
They had by this time reached the drawing-room, and Mrs. Sartwell sat down, gazing with chastened severity at her step-daughter.
“Edna,” she said, solemnly, “I implore you not to give way to flippancy. That is exactly the way your father talks, and while, let us hope, it will be forgiven him, it ill becomes one of your years to take that tone. Your father little thinks what trouble he is storing for himself in his training of you, and, if I told him you were deceiving him, he would not believe it. But some day, alas! his eyes will be opened.”
“How am I deceiving him?” cried Edna, a quick pallour coming into her face.
Her step-mother mournfully shook her head, and sighed.
“If your own heart does not tell you, then perhaps I should be silent. You have his wicked temper, my poor child. Your face is pale with anger just because I have mildly tried to show you the right path.”
“You have not shown me the right path. You have said I am deceiving my father, and I ask what you mean?”
Mrs. Sartwell smiled gently, if sadly.
“How like! how like! I can almost fancy it is your father speaking with your voice.”
“Well, I am glad of that. You don’t often say complimentary things to me.”