Part 5 (1/2)

”Will yer come or will yer not?” said Mrs. Warren. ”I'll take yer jaunts, too--I forgot to mention that. Often on a fine Sat.u.r.day, you an'

me--we'll go to the country together. You don't know 'ow fine that 'ull be. We'll go to the country and we'll 'ave a spree. Did yer never see the country?”

”No,” said Connie, in a slow voice, ”but I ha' dreamt of it.”

”She's the sort, ma'am,” interrupted Agnes, ”wot dreams the queerest things. She's hall for poetry and flowers and sech like. She's not matter-o'-fack like me.”

”Jest the sort I want,” said Mrs. Warren. ”I--I loves poetry. You shall read it aloud to me, my gel--or, better still, I'll read it to you. An'

as to flowers--why, yer shall pluck 'em yer own self, an' yer'll see 'em a-blowin' an' a-growin', yer own self. We'll go to the country next Sat.u.r.day. There, now--ain't that fine?”

Connie looked puzzled. There certainly was a great attraction at the thought of going into the country. She hated the machine-work. But, all the same, somehow or other she did not like Mrs. Warren.

”I'll think o' it and let yer know,” she said.

But when she uttered these words the stately dressed and over-fine lady changed her manner.

”There's no thinking now,” she said. ”You're 'ere, and yer'll stay. You go out arter you ha' been at my house? You refuse my goodness? Not a bit o' it! Yer'll stay.”

”Oh, yes, Connie,” said Agnes in a soothing tone.

”But I don't want to stay,” said Connie, now thoroughly frightened. ”I want to go--and to go at once. Let me go, ma'am; I--I don't like yer!”

Poor Connie made a rush for the door, but Agnes flew after her and clasped her round the waist.

”Yer _be_ a silly!” she said. ”Yer jest stay with her for one week.”

”But I--I must go and tell father,” said poor Connie.

”You needn't--I'll go an' tell him. Don't yer get into such a fright.

Don't, for goodness' sake! Why, think of five s.h.i.+llin's a week, and jaunts into the country, and beautiful food, and poetry read aloud to yer, and hall the rest!”

”I has most select poetry here,” said Mrs. Warren. ”Did yer never yere of a man called Tennyson? An' did yer never read that most touching story of the consumptive gel called the 'May Queen'? 'Ef ye're wakin'

call me hearly, call me hearly, mother dear.' I'll read yer that. It's the most beauteous thing.”

”It sounds lovely,” said Connie.

She was always arrested by the slightest thing which touched her keen fancy and rich imagination.

”And you 'ates the machines,” said Agnes.

”Oh yes, I 'ates the machines,” cried Connie. Then she added after a pause: ”I'm 'ere, and I'll stay for one week. But I must go back first to get some o' my bits o' duds, and to tell father. You'd best let me go, ma'am; I won't be long away.”

”But I can't do that,” said Mrs. Warren; ”it's a sight too late for a young, purty gel like you to be out. Agnes, now, can go and tell yer father, and bring wot clothes yer want to-morrow.--Agnes, yer'll do that, won't yer?”

”Yes--that I will.”

”They'll never let me stay,” said Connie, reflecting on this fact with some satisfaction.

”We won't ax him, my dear,” said Mrs. Warren.