When Mrs. Drummond saw her daughter’s face that evening, she knew the cloud had passed between the brother and sister.
Grace followed her to her room that night,—a thing she had not done for months.
“Mother, I must thank you for being so good to us,” she began, impulsively, as soon as she had crossed the threshold.
“How have I been good to you, Grace?” observed her mother, calmly, as she unfastened her brooch. “Of course, I have always tried to be good to my children, although they do not seem to think so.”
“Ah, but this is very special goodness: and I am more grateful than I can say. Are you sure you will be able to spare me, mother?”
“After Christmas?—oh, yes: things will be possible then. If I remember rightly, I had to endure some very bitter words from you on this very subject. I hope you will do justice to my judgment at that time.”
“Yes, mother,” with downcast eyes. “I am afraid Archie and I were very wilful.”
“You were wilful, Grace,”—for Mrs. Drummond never suffered any one to find fault with her son in her hearing,—“you who ought to have known better. And yet I do believe that, but for my determination to enforce the right thing, you would have left your post, and all your duties, because Archie wanted you.”
“I was wrong. I see that plainly.”
“Yes, you were wrong: for a long time you bore yourself towards me as no daughter ought to bear herself to her mother. You angered me sorely, Grace, because I saw you were hardening yourself against me, only because I insisted that no child of mine should neglect her duty.”