It was like the beginning of the end. When once Uncle Tom had arrived, the old home would not seem like their own any longer. The guardian would be there to look after and arrange everything; and before very long they would have to leave—never to return.
As that thought come into Sheila’s mind, she ceased her excited pacing and came and stood beside the glowing hearth, her eyes full of unshed tears as she gazed into the heart of the fire.
Oscar saw the tears and came and put his arm about her. He knew very well the nature of the thoughts within her.
“Sheila,” he said softly, “we must try to be brave and good. We know that God will take care of us as much in one place as another.”
She nodded her head, and a great drop fell glistening down. She pulled Oscar’s hand more closely round her.
“I don’t think things are as real to me as they are to you, Oscar. I like to be taken care of by somebody I can see. Papa always did, and now he is gone, and they are going to take you away from me too.”
“I shall be quite near, Sheila; we shall always be meeting.”
“It isn’t like being in the same house.”
“You will have Uncle and Aunt Cossart, and I think there will be some cousins too. I know Uncle Tom has children; I’m not quite so sure about Uncle Cossart.”
“Perhaps I sha’n’t like them. I don’t like everybody,” began Sheila; but then she caught herself up quickly and added, “But I am going to try and be good, Oscar, I really am. Perhaps I’ve been too happy all this time—made too much of. It may be good for me to have some snubbing now. I’ll try not to mind very much—to take it patiently—like the early Christians, you know. When I was little I used to think it might be rather nice to be persecuted.”