Anne Purcell glanced at her daughter with momentary and questioning distrust. The girl’s face betrayed no more self-consciousness than the great white loaf on the trencher near her mother. She sat down, glanced over the table listlessly, and then through the window where the sun was shining.
“You look tired, Barbe?”
An insinuating friendliness approached her in the mother’s voice.
“Tired?—I slept all night. How fresh the garden looks! I feel I should like a drive in the park to-day.”
“Yes; you want more interest—more bustle in your life.”
“Perhaps I should have fewer moods—”
“Take some wine, dear,” and she pushed the flask toward her. “Why not trust yourself to me a little more? We are not all so melancholy.”
“I might only spoil your pleasure.”
“Nonsense. I should enjoy life more if you had a happier face.”