As for Weston the tease, he had slipped swiftly and silently from the room with the entrance of the mother.
Yes, she was their mother. At least, she was their father’s wife, though none of the three had ever called her by the name of mother. A curious position she held in the home, bound by solemn pledge to do a mother’s duty by these three children, yet receiving from none of them a shred of the love, or respect, or true obedience, which the name mother ought to call forth.
Poor Mrs. Moore! I do hope you are sorry for her. Sorry for the children, are you? Well, so am I.
Indeed it is true, they every one need pity and help. The question is, Will they get what they need?
Upstairs, angry Margaret made haste to remove her much soiled dress, eyes flashing, and cheeks burning the while. Something more than the scenes we watched in the kitchen had to do with Margaret’s mood.
A green and prickly chestnut bur came whizzing into the room, landing in the middle of her bed.
It called forth an angry exclamation. Here was some more of that tormenting West’s work. She would not stand it! She made a rush for the window, but a low, merry laugh stopped her. This was not West’s laugh.
“Well,” said Hester Andrews, from under the chestnut-tree, “can you go?”
“No; of course I can’t. I should think you might know without asking. Do I ever go anywhere now days?”
“It is just too mean for anything!” declared Hester. “What reason does she give this time?”