Mrs. Lambert, who was sitting apart from the girls, busy with her weekly accounts, looked up at hearing her daughter’s speech.
“That is right, dear,” she said gently, “that is just how I like to hear you speak; it would grieve me if my girls were to grow discontented with their home, as some young ladies do.”
“Bessie is not like that, mother,” interposed Hatty eagerly.
“No, Hatty, we know that, do we not? What do you think father said the other day, Bessie? He said, ‘I shall be glad when we get Bessie back, for the place does not seem like itself when she is away.’ That was a high compliment from father.”
“Indeed it was,” returned Bessie; and she blushed with pleasure. “Every one likes to be missed; but I hope you didn’t want me too much, mother.”
“No, dear; but, like father, I am glad to get you back again.” And the mother’s eyes rested fondly on the girl’s face. “Now you must not make me idle, for I have all these accounts to do, and some notes to write. Go on with your talking; it will not interrupt me.”
It spoke well for the Lambert girls that their mother’s presence never interfered with them; they talked as freely before her as other girls do in their parent’s absence. From children they had never been repressed nor unnaturally subdued; their childish preferences and tastes had been known and respected; no thoughtless criticism had wounded their susceptibility; imperceptibly and gently maternal advice had guided and restrained them.
“We tell mother everything, and she likes to hear it,” Ella and Katie would say to their school-fellows.
“We never have secrets from her,” Ella added. “Katie did once, and mother was so hurt that she cried about it. Don’t you recollect, Katie?”
“Yes, and it is horrid of you to remind me,” returned Katie wrathfully, and she walked away in high dudgeon; the recollection was not a pleasant one. Katie’s soft heart had been pierced by her mother’s unfeigned grief and tender reproaches.