Jack and nurse stared at her. I am afraid they called her a silly girl, but however that may have been, her disappointment was vivid enough for the remembrance of it to have lasted through well nigh half a century, and her tears flowed on. Just then came a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of the cook, a north countrywoman and a great favourite with the children. A glance at her showed Maimie that she was weeping, and when their old friend threw her arms around the little people, and kissed them, amidst her sobs Maimie felt certain that the source of her grief was the same as of her own.
“Is you crying ’cos Jack hasn’t growed for his birthday?” asked the little girl. But Hannah shook her head.
“I don’t know what you mean, my sweet one,” said the old woman. “I’m crying because I’ve got to leave you. This very morning I’m going, and I’ve come to say good-bye.”
This startling announcement checked Maimie’s tears, or if they flowed again it was from a different cause.
“Oh, dear Hannah,” the two exclaimed, “why must you go if it makes you so unhappy? Doesn’t mamma want you to stay?”
“Oh, yes, dearie,” was the reply, “but it’s my duty to go to my old mistress. She’s ill now and sad, and she thinks Hannah can nurse her better than anyone else.”
So with tender farewells to the children she was never to see again, poor Hannah went her way.
Her “old mistress” was Miss Dorothy Wordsworth. And though Jack and Maimie never saw the faithful servant any more, they heard from, or rather of, her before long. For only a few weeks had passed when one morning the postman brought a small parcel directed to themselves, and a letter to Jack, Hannah’s particular pet. The letter and the addresses were in a queer, somewhat shaky hand-writing, that of Mr. Wordsworth himself, now an aged man, for it was within a few years of his death; the parcel contained a tempting-looking volume, bound in red and gold—“Selections for the young”—of the laureate’s poems, with Jack’s name inscribed therein, and even more gratifying, from the kindly thoughtfulness it displayed, a little silk neckerchief in tartan—the children’s own tartan, for they belonged to a Scotch clan—for Maimie. And the letter, written to the old servant’s dictation, for she could not write herself, told of her consultation with her master as to the most appropriate presents to choose for her little favourites.
Almost more touching than the trustfulness of children is their extraordinary endurance—a quality often, I fear, carried to a painful and even dangerous point. It has its root, I suspect, in their innate trust, their belief that whatever their elders deem right must be so; also perhaps, in a certain almost fatalistic acceptance of things as they are. But on few subjects connected with childhood have I felt more strongly than on this. No parent is justified in “taking for granted” the moral qualifications, even the suitability of the persons in charge of their little boys and girls, however unexceptionable may be the references and recommendations they bring. It takes tact and gives trouble, but it is among the first of the duties of mothers especially to make sure on such points for themselves. For besides their trust in their elders and their natural resignation to the conditions about them, there is an extreme sense of loyalty in most children, a horror of “tell-taling,” such as are often far too slightly appreciated or taken into account.
As these remarks are professedly a “ramble” I may be forgiven for reverting to that beautiful trustfulness, by relating an incident which, though trivial in the extreme, has never faded from my memory. We were returning, late at night, or so at least it seemed to me, from some kind of juvenile entertainment at Christmas time. It was a stormy evening; I was a very little girl, and since infancy, high wind has always frightened me, and that night it was blowing fiercely. I was already trembling, when the carriage suddenly stopped. My father at once sprang out, for there was no second man on the box; there was nothing wrong, only the coachman’s hat had blown off! He got down and ran back for it, and my father replaced him and drove on slowly, for the wind had made the horse restless.