She had gone on always so carelessly and happily, that the new turn of affairs sobered and startled her. She seemed to herself to say goodbye, not only to her home, but to the long, bright, happy childhood that had been spent there. And her thoughts were full of the few words Mrs. Harley had spoken about her papa's expenses and worries.
"If I had only known," she said to herself; "if I had only thought about things, I would have tried to learn more, and be some help while I was here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys and my dear little Johnnie and Francie—I did think I should have had you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at Silchester."
When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the family were rising for the last breakfast together.
It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the stuffy second-class carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep back the tears that would try to come.
"Papa," she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them had got out at the last station—"papa, I want you to promise me something, please."
"Well, Edith, what is it?"
"I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that I have done—while I was at home, I mean."
"You have never done anything very dreadful, child," said the doctor with a smile. "Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls, it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old woman."
"I will do my very best"
"No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water, and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I am going to be different; and I shall be different—I shall indeed, papa."