"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding both the child's hands, and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy, but the wrong was done before you were born; and it's righted at last, thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor lamb, we will talk of all those things no more; your troubles are over, and all you have to do is to get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as ever you can; and always remember, little one, you have a true friend in old Mittens. She loved your father, and she will always love you; and now you must lie down on that sofa, and rest for an hour. The boys are sure to be in for dinner, and I want you to be nice and bright."
agnes looked up at mrs. mittens ([p. 35]).
So Agnes lay down very contentedly.
"Oh, how I shall enjoy this place!" she said to herself. "How I shall love it!—my own father's home, where he played as a child. Perhaps he lay on this sofa, just like me, and looked across the beautiful park, smelt the flowers, heard the birds sing. If he knew I was here now, how happy he would be!" So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the warm summer sunshine. Her thoughts flew back to the dreary London lodging where her whole short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she thought of the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter losses she had endured; and then her eyes overflowed with gratitude at finding such kind friends and such a beautiful home. At last, weary with her journey, she fell asleep.
After a while the sound of voices roused her, and in a bewildered kind of way she looked round.
"I say she's an ugly, miserable-looking little thing. I shouldn't think it worth my while to sketch her!" one voice said, contemptuously. "If she had been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid Sleeping Beauty!"
"She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too; but she's not ugly," another voice said decidedly. "She might not make a nice picture, but she looks pleasant enough curled up there. Come on away; don't let us wake her."
"I am awake," said Agnes, sitting up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes full of tears, but no one answered. The boys, who had been looking in at the window of the housekeeper's room, had turned into the shrubbery, and Agnes felt as if she had been guilty of a very mean, unworthy action in listening, even involuntarily, to a conversation not intended for her ears. Her cousins, too, she felt quite sure, would be exceedingly cross if they knew she had overheard them; and yet she said to herself—"I was only half awake. I did not want to listen, and I could not help it." It would not mend matters in the least to tell them that she had overheard their criticism, so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs. Mittens came, a little later, to conduct her to the dining-room, she was very shy and nervous. As she took her place, she looked at the boys wistfully, wondering which of them thought her "ugly," and which thought her pleasant enough to look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she hoped that Eddie was her champion, but before the dinner was over it was easy enough to see that Bertie was going to be the shy little girl's friend, for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her, much less speak to her, during the meal, while Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of all their favourite amusements and walks, and promising to show her all his treasures and lend her his storybooks. Still, though Bertie was kind, and Eddie cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin was far handsomer and cleverer than his brother. Perhaps he would be an artist, like Uncle Clair; and when he knew that she too could use her pencil a little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be kinder to her.