"Has Nettie shewn you her Christmas things?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it will please you to see them. You are welcome, my dear."
Rotha carried her package of paper up stairs, wondering what experiences would till out the afternoon. Her aunt and cousin seemed by no means to be in a genial mood. They all went up to the dressing room and sat down there in silence; all, that is, except Mr. Busby. Rotha's thoughts went with a spring to her bag and her books at Mrs. Mowbray's. Two o'clock, said the clock over the chimney piece. In three hours more she might go home.
Mrs. Busby took some work; she always had a basket of mending to do. Apologies did not seem to have wrought any mollification of her temper. Antoinette went down to the parlour to practise, and the sweet notes of the piano were presently heard rumbling up and down. Rotha sat and looked at her aunt's fingers.
"Do you know anything about mending your clothes, Rotha?" Mrs. Busby at last broke the silence.
"Not much, ma'am."
"Suppose I give you a lesson. See here—here is a thin place on the shoulder of one of Mr. Busby's shirts; there must go a patch on there. Now I will give you a patch—"
She sought out a piece of linen, cut a square from it with great attention to the evenness of the cutting, and gave it to Rotha.
"It must go from here to here—see?" she said, shewing the place; "and you must lay it just even with the threads; it must be exactly even; you must baste it just as you want it; and then fell it down very neatly."