“Percy and Mr. Erle have been here,” was Fern’s answer, as she took her place at her mother’s feet; “and Percy left his love for you, and was so sorry to miss you.”
Mrs. Trafford made no comment on this piece of information, but she glanced quickly at Crystal; perhaps something in the girl’s face warned her, for she at once changed the subject, to her daughter’s surprise, and, without asking any questions, began telling them about the invalid.
But after they had chatted for a few minutes, Crystal rose, and, saying that she was very tired, bade them both good-night.
Mrs. Trafford looked after the girl anxiously, and then her glance fell on her daughter. Fern was looking into the fire, dreamily, and there was a sort of wistfulness in her eyes; when her mother touched her gently she started.
“My little sunbeam does not look quite so bright tonight,” she said, tenderly. “I am afraid you have been tiring yourself, Fern, trying to finish Florence’s frock.”
“Oh, no,” returned the girl, quickly, and then a frank blush came to her face as she met her mother’s clear searching look. “Well, I will confess, as Fluff says”—laughing a little unsteadily; “I am afraid I was just a little bit discontented.”
“You discontented, my pet?” in an incredulous voice, for Fern’s sweet unselfishness and bright content made the sunshine of their humble home. There seemed no chord of fretfulness in the girl’s nature; her pure health and buoyant spirits found no cause for complaint. Nea lived her youth again in her child, and she often thanked Heaven even in her desolate moments for this one blessing that had never disappointed her.
Fern pressed a little closer to her mother, and wrapped her arms round her. “But it is true, mother, I had quite a naughty fit. Crystal talked about Percy and Mr. Erle; it was not so much what she said as what she implied that troubled me, but she seemed to think that our life was so different to theirs—that we were poor people, and that they had nothing in common with us, and that it was better not to be friends. Somehow, it made me feel all at once how shabby and commonplace one’s life really was.”
Mrs. Trafford sighed, but there was no reproach in her voice. “Yes, dear; I understand, it is quite natural, and I should have felt the same at your age. I wish, for your sake, my darling, that things were different; but Crystal is very wise and right in trying to make you understand the barrier between Erle Huntingdon and us.”
“But, mother,” with a burning face, “we are gentlefolk; surely it does not matter so much that we are poor.”