Part 8 (2/2)

”O dear, no!” she answered. ”She is far too good to complain of anything. That's just why her friends must look after her a bit, Mr.

Walton.”

”Then I beg you won't speak disrespectfully of my little Theodora.”

”O dear me! no. Not at all. I don't speak disrespectfully of her.”

”Even amongst the cla.s.s of which she comes, 'a beggar's brat' would be regarded as bad language.”

”I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Mr. Walton! If you _will_ take offence--”

”I do take offence. And you know there is One who has given especial warning against offending the little ones.”

Miss Bowdler walked away in high displeasure--let me hope in conviction of sin as well. She did not appear in church for the next two Sundays.

Then she came again. But she called very seldom at the Hall after this, and I believe my wife was not sorry.

Now whether it came in any way from what that lady had said as to my wife's trouble with Constance and Theodora together, I can hardly tell; but, before I had reached home, I had at last got a glimpse of something like the right way, as it appeared to me, of bringing up Theodora. When I went into the house, I looked for my wife to have a talk with her about it; but, indeed, it always necessary to find her every time I got home. I found her in Connie's room as I had expected. Now although we were never in the habit of making mysteries of things in which there was no mystery, and talked openly before our children, and the more openly the older they grew, yet there were times when we wanted to have our talks quite alone, especially when we had not made up our minds about something. So I asked Ethelwyn to walk out with me.

”I'm afraid I can't just this moment, husband,” she answered. She was in the way of using that form of address, for she said it meant everything without saying it aloud. ”I can't just this moment, for there is no one at liberty to stay with Connie.”

”O, never mind me, mamma,” said Connie cheerfully. ”Theodora will take care of me,” and she looked fondly at the child, who was lying by her side fast asleep.

”There!” I said. And both, looked up surprised, for neither knew what I meant. ”I will tell you afterwards,” I said, laughing. ”Come along, Ethel.”

”You can ring the bell, you know, Connie, if you should want anything, or your baby should wake up and be troublesome. You won't want me long, will you, husband?”

”I'm not sure about that. You must tell Susan to watch for the bell.”

Susan was the old nurse.

Ethel put on her hooded cloak, and we went out together. I took her across to the field where I had seen the h.o.a.ry shadow. The sun had not shone out, and I hoped it would be there to gladden her dear eyes as it had gladdened mine; but it was gone. The warmth of the sun, without his direct rays, had melted it away, as sacred influences will sometimes do with other shadows, without the mind knowing any more than the gra.s.s how the shadow departed. There, reader! I have got a bit of a moral in about it before you knew what I was doing. But I was sorry my wife could see it only through my eyes and words. Then I told her about Miss Bowdler, and what she had said. Ethel was very angry at her impertinence in speaking so to me. That was a wife's feeling, you know, and perhaps excusable in the first impression of the thing.

”She seems to think,” she said, ”that she was sent into the world to keep other people right instead of herself. I am very glad you set her down, as the maids say.”

”O, I don't think there's much harm in her,” I returned, which was easy generosity, seeing my wife was taking my part. ”Indeed, I am not sure that we are not both considerably indebted to her; for it was after I met her that a thought came into my head as to how we ought to do with Theodora.”

”Still troubling yourself about that, husband?”

”The longer the difficulty lasts, the more necessary is it that it should be met,” I answered. ”Our measures must begin sometime, and when, who can tell? We ought to have them in our heads, or they will never begin at all.”

”Well, I confess they are rather of a general nature at present--belonging to humanity rather than the individual, as you would say--consisting chiefly in was.h.i.+ng, dressing, feeding, and apostrophe, varied with lullabying. But our hearts are a better place for our measures than our heads, aren't they?”

”Certainly; I walk corrected. Only there's no fear about your heart. I'm not quite so sure about your head.”

”Thank you, husband. But with you for a head it doesn't matter, does it?”

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