“Oh!” she answered, wrinkling her pretty brow in perplexity. “But I must see them, please. They have not been unkind to me, and I should not like to go without thanking them.”
And before he could remonstrate, she had pushed open the lodge door and gone within.
“Now, Mrs. Weighton,” he heard her cry, “you’ll give me a character, won’t you? I’ve behaved well now, haven’t I?”
“Yes, miss, I’ll say that,” the woman answered stolidly.
“I haven’t scratched nor screamed, and I’ve done as I’ve been bid? And you’ve had no use for the pump water?”
“I wish you hadn’t swept out the yard,” grudgingly; “’twas no order of mine, you’ll remember. And don’t you go and say that I’ve treated you ill!”
“I’ll not! Indeed, I’ll not!” Henrietta cried in a different tone. “I’ll say you treated me very well. And that is for your little girl to make up for her disappointment. She’ll be sorry I’m not going to be transported,” with a hint of laughter in her voice. “And, Mrs. Weighton, I’m going to ask you something.”
“Well, miss? If it is to oblige you?”
“Then, will you,” in a tone touched by feeling, “if you have some day another like me, will you be as good to her? And remember that she may not have done anything wrong after all? Will you promise me?”
“I will, miss,” Mrs. Weighton answered—very graciously for her. “But there, it isn’t all has your sense! They takes and runs their heads against a brick wall! Either they scratches and screams, or they sulks and starves. And then we’ve to manage them, and we get the blame. I see you looked white and shivering when you come in, and I thought we’d have trouble with you. But there, you kept yourself in hand, and showed your sense—it’s breeding does it—and you’ve naught to complain of in consequence. Wishing you well and kindly, miss!”