HOODIE'S DISOBEDIENCE.
"Where are the pretty primroses gone,
That lately bloomed in the wood?"
Notwithstanding her troubles, on account of them partly, perhaps, for
nothing tires out little children more than long crying, Hoodie slept
soundly that night. She was still sleeping when, at seven o'clock,
Magdalen, already dressed and with the cage in her hand, came into her
room to watch for her waking.
Martin, who had heard the joyful news an hour ago, stood with Miss King
beside the little girl's bed and looked at her. Poor Hoodie! Her rosy
face still bore traces of yesterday's weeping, and now and then through
her sleep one heard that little sobbing catch in her breathing which is,
to my thinking, one of the most piteous sounds in the world.
"She's tired herself out," said Martin. "She may sleep another hour or
more. You'll be tired standing there, miss. Who would think Miss Hoodie
had it in her to take things to heart so, for to see her sometimes she's
like as if she had no heart or love in her at all."
"I think I'll put the cage on a chair beside the bed," said Magdalen,
"and then she'll be sure to see it the moment she wakes."
She did so and went quietly away. Half an hour later, coming back again
to see if Hoodie was still sleeping, she heard as she opened the door
the sound of the little girl's voice. She had just awakened and had
discovered the return of her bird. She was in an ecstasy of delight,
very pretty to hear and see.
"Oh my darling little bird," she was saying, "oh my sweet, innocent pet,
have you come back? oh my dear, _dear_ bird! You didn't mean to go away
from Hoodie, did you? You lost your way, didn't you? Hoodie will never
speak c'oss again, birdie, _never_. I do think God is vezzy kind to send
you back again, and I _will_ try to please Him by being good, 'cos He's
so kind."
Magdalen stood still and watched her, with pleasure, but with a strange
sort of slight sadness and misgiving too. There was something almost
startling in the little girl's extreme love for the bird, and it made
her cousin wish it could be bestowed on a higher object.
"Why can't she love her sister and brothers more?" she thought to
herself. "I do not know what she would do now if anything again happened
to the bird. I wonder if it would have been better if it had not come
back. But no, I must not think that. _All_ love must do good to a nature
like Hoodie's, and her love for the bird may teach her other things. And
oh, I should have been sorry to leave her while she was as unhappy as
she was yesterday."
Then she came forward into the room, and when Hoodie saw her, there was
a fresh cry of delight, and Magdalen had to tell her over and over again
exactly how it had all happened; how it was that she was up so early,
how birdie flew in and then out again, and how Magdalen feared that
after all she might not be able to catch him, and how delighted she was
when she felt sure she had got him safe.
"I was so glad to think how pleased you would be, Hoodie, dear!" she
said.
"Thank you, Cousin Magdalen, you are vezzy kind," said Hoodie. "And I
think God is vezzy kind too, for you know I said my prayers to Him last
night to send birdie back again, so He must have told him to come.
P'raps He sent a' angel to show birdie the way. I'm going to be vezzy
good now, Cousin Magdalen, _awful_ good, alvays, 'cos God was kind and
sent birdie back. _Won't_ God be glad?"
"Yes, dear, God is always glad when His little children are good. He
likes them to be happy, and being good is the only way," said Magdalen.
"But won't He be _dedfully_ glad for me to be kite good?" said Hoodie,
seemingly not quite satisfied with her cousin's tone. "I wouldn't have
tried so much if He hadn't sent birdie back, but now I'm going to try
awful hard."
"But, Hoodie dear, even if God hadn't sent birdie back it would have
been right to try as hard as ever you could," said Magdalen. "That's
what I wish you could understand--even when God _doesn't_ do what we ask
Him we should try to please Him. For He loves us just the same--better
than if He did what we ask, for He knows that sometimes what we ask
wouldn't be good for us. I don't think you understand that, Hoodie dear.
You think when your mother, or Martin perhaps, doesn't do all at once
what you ask, that it is because they don't love you. You mustn't feel
that way, dear, either about your friends here, or about God, your best
friend of all."
Hoodie looked up, rather puzzled. Magdalen feared she had not understood
what she said, and almost regretted having said it. And afterwards she
wondered what had put it into her mind to try to explain to the little
girl what puzzles and bewilders far wiser people, but by the time that
"afterwards" came she no longer regretted having said what she had.
"I do think God loves me now," said Hoodie, sturdily, "'cos He's sent
birdie back, and so I'm going to try to be good. But if I was God I'd
_alvays_ do what ev'ybody asked me, and I'd _make_ it be good for them,
and then ev'ybody would be so pleased, they'd always try to be good."
"I'm afraid not, Hoodie," said Magdalen with a slight smile. "I'm afraid
if everybody always got what they want there would soon be very little
goodness left anywhere."
Hoodie at this looked more puzzled than before, but Magdalen, who had
been speaking more to herself than to the child this time, did not try
to explain any more. She bent over Hoodie and kissed her.
"Any way don't forget about trying to be good, and ask God to help you,"
she said.
The next day "Maudie's godmother" went away. She had stayed longer than
she had intended, and now her father and mother could spare her no
longer. The children were greatly distressed at her going. Maudie cried
gently, the boys more uproariously, and all three joined in reproaching
Hoodie for not crying at all. Hoodie seemed quite indifferent to their
remarks.
"Why should I cry?" she said. "It would be very silly to cry when Cousin
Magdalen is going back to her father and mother. Crying isn't any good."
"You don't love Cousin Magdalen," said Maudie, "if you did you couldn't
help crying."
"I _do_ love her. I love her as many times as you do, ugl"----
She stopped--Magdalen was looking at her with a look that Hoodie
understood. Hoodie ran to her and threw her arms round her neck.
"I _do_ love you, Cousin Magdalen," she whispered. "Don't you believe
me? I do love you, and I'm trying dedfully to be good, to please you and
God, 'cos of birdie coming back."
"I do believe you, dear," said Magdalen, and Hoodie glanced round with
triumph.
I am coming now to a part of Hoodie's history which I cannot prevent
being rather sad. I wish, for some reasons, I could prevent it. But true
stories must be told true, and even fancy stories must be told in a
fancy true way, or else they do not suit themselves. When I was a
little girl I never cared for the new-fashioned "Red Riding Hood" story;
the one in which she was _not_ eaten up at the end after all, but saved
by a wood-cutter at the last minute. Of course it was very nice to think
of poor Red Riding Hood not being eaten up, if one could have managed to
believe it. But somehow I never could, and even now whenever I think of
the story the old original ending, dreadful as it was, always comes back
to me. So now that I am telling you about--not Red Riding Hood--but my
queer, fanciful, but still I hope lovable, Hoodie, I feel that I must go
straight on and tell you what really happened, even though it makes you
rather sad.
For some time after Miss King left, things went on pretty smoothly, very
smoothly, perhaps I should say. Hoodie did not forget about trying to be
good, especially in her bird's presence. It became a sort of conscience
to her, and as, by a law which is a great help in learning to be
good,--though also a danger the more in learning _wrong_,--by the law of
_habit_, every time one tries to keep under one's ill temper, makes it
easier for the next time, it grew really easier for Hoodie to check her
naughty cross words and looks from the way she kept them down when
beside her little pet. And Martin and every one began to think it had
been a happy thing for Hoodie and those about her that her cousin had
taught her how to tame and care for the pretty greenfinch.
It was so pretty, poor little birdie! It grew so tame that, with the
window shut of course, it spent a great part of its time flying freely
about the ante-room where stood its cage. It would "pouch" not only on
Hoodie's finger but on her shoulder, her head--anywhere she chose to
place it. And in an instant, at the sound of her call, it would fly to
her. Every morning it was her first thought, every night her last. And
night and morning when she said her prayers, she never forgot to thank
God for being "_so_ kind as to send birdie back again," and to beg Him
to keep birdie safe and well.
One evening--how it happened I cannot tell,--it was very hot and sultry
weather, with thunder about, and at such times people are careless about
closing doors and windows--one evening, by some mischance which no one
ever could explain, the window of "birdie's room," as it had come to be
called, was either left open, or flew open in some way. Hoodie was sure
she had closed it when she went to bid her pet good night, but it was
what is called a lattice window, and these are apt to fly open unless
very firmly shut. Birdie was safe in his cage however, and the door of
_that_ was fortunately--even when you hear what happened, children, you
will agree with me that that part of it _was_ fortunate--quite fastened.
Early next morning, one of the servants who slept in an attic above the
ante-room, heard a noise below. She was a kind-hearted girl, and her
first thought was of Miss Hoodie's bird. She got up at once, and
hurrying down-stairs--it was not so very early after all, nearly six
o'clock--ran to the ante-room. As she opened the door, to her horror a
great big strange cat jumped out of the window.
"Oh dear, oh dear," said Lucy, "can he have got at birdie?"
The cage was not to be seen--but in another moment Lucy spied it on the
floor, knocked down off the table by the cruel cat. He had not got at
birdie--birdie lay in one corner, quite still as if dead, and yet when
Lucy with trembling fingers unfastened the cage door and tenderly lifted
out his little occupant, she could see no injury, not the slightest
scratch.
"His heart's beating still," she said, "perhaps it's only the fright of
the fall," and she was turning to the window to examine birdie more
closely, when a sound behind her made her start, and turning round she
saw in the doorway the bird's little mistress, poor Hoodie herself. She
was in her nightgown only--she had run from her room with her little
bare feet, having heard Lucy passing down-stairs, with an instinct of
fear that some evil had befallen her pet.
"Lucy, Lucy," she cried, "what is the matter? It isn't anything the
matter with birdie. Oh, dear Lucy, _don't_ say it is."
Her voice somehow, as Lucy said afterwards, sounded like that of a
grown-up person--all the babyishness seemed to have gone out of it--she
did not cry, she stood there white as a sheet, clasping her hands in a
way that went to Lucy's heart.
"Oh, Miss Hoodie," she replied, the tears running down her face, for she
was very tender-hearted, "oh dear, Miss Hoodie, don't take on so. I hope
birdie's not badly hurt. The cat didn't touch him. It knocked over the
cage, and it must have been the fall; but _perhaps_ he's more frightened
than hurt."
"Give him to me, Lucy," said Hoodie. "Let me hold him in my own hands.
Oh, birdie dear, oh, birdie darling, don't you know me?" for birdie lay
still and limp--almost as if dead already. Hoodie, forcing back the
tears, whistled her usual call to him, and as its sound reached his
ears, birdie seemed to quiver, raised his head, feebly flapped his
wings, and tried, with a piteous attempt at shaking off the sleep from
which he would never again awake, tried to rouse himself and to struggle
to his feet.
"Oh, Lucy," cried Hoodie, "he's getting better," but as she said the
words, birdie fell over on his side, uttered the feeblest of chirps, and
with a little quiver lay still--quite still--he was dead. The fright had
killed him.
Hoodie looked up in Lucy's face with tearless eyes.
"Is he dead?" she said.
"Yes, Miss Hoodie dear," said Lucy, softly stroking the ruffled
feathers, "he is dead, but oh dear, Miss Hoodie, it isn't so bad as if
the cat had torn and scratched him all over. You should think of that."
But Hoodie could think of nothing in the shape of comfort. She held the
little dead bird out to Lucy.
"Take him and bury him," she said. "He can't love me any more, so take
him away. All the loving's dead. He was the only thing that loved me. I
won't try to be good any more. God is very unkind."
"Miss Hoodie!" exclaimed Lucy, considerably shocked. But Hoodie just
looked at her with a hard set expression in her white face.
"You don't understand," she said. "Take him away and bury him."
She turned to the door and left the room. She went slowly back to her
own room, and got into her little bed again. Then, like the old Hebrew
king, poor little English Hoodie "turned her face to the wall," and wept
and wept as if never again there could be for her brightness in the
sunshine, or love and happiness in life.
"My bird, my bird," she moaned. That was all she could say.
She refused at first to get up and be dressed. Then, with an idea
perhaps that if she did so she would be more independent than if staying
in bed, with papa and mamma and Martin and everybody coming to talk to
her, and try to comfort her, she slowly got out of bed and let Martin
dress her. But when it came to saying her prayers, she altogether
refused to do so, and on this point there was no getting her to give in.
She did not refuse to eat her breakfast, because she had sense enough to
know that sooner or later she would be obliged to eat, but the moment it
was swallowed, she took her little chair and seated herself in the
corner of the nursery, her face to the wall, crying, crying steadily,
and hopelessly, turning like a little fury upon any one who ventured to
speak to her, only moaning out from time to time--
"My bird, oh my bird!"
They were all very sorry for her. Maudie's tears and those of the little
boys had flowed freely when the sad story was first told to them; they
had all rushed to Hoodie to try to kiss and comfort her. But her extreme
crossness, or what any way looked like it to them, sent them away
puzzled and hurt. Hoodie's mother had proposed that the little girl
should spend the whole day down-stairs with her, have dinner at the
dining-room luncheon, and go a drive in the afternoon, but to all this
Hoodie only replied by a determined shake of the head, as well as to her
father's offer of a new bird, or two if she liked, the prettiest that
could be bought.
So they were all really at their wits' end.
It was very sad, but one must also allow that it was very tiresome.
Martin began to fear that the child would really make herself ill, and
as was Martin's "way," her anxiety began to make her rather cross.
"I wish Miss King had never put it into the child's head to have a pet
bird," she muttered to herself as she was washing up the tea-things that
evening, glancing at Hoodie's disconsolate figure still in the corner of
the nursery. "Miss King may be all very well and kind, but she's no
knowledge of children, how should she have any? I think it's much best
to leave children to them that understands them; though indeed as for
any one's understanding Miss Hoodie----!"
Fortunately it did not occur to Hoodie to make any objection to going to
bed, and it was a relief to every one to know of her being there and
safely asleep, "forgetting her troubles for a while," as Martin said.
The next day was very little better. Hoodie did not cry quite so much,
but she still sat in a corner doing nothing, and when any one attempted
to speak to her, however kindly, she turned upon them with fierceness,
like a little ill-tempered cat.
Yet it was not ill-temper; it was really misery, or at least it was
ill-temper caused by misery. But as no gentleness and patience, no
sympathy or attempt at comforting her did any good, but harm--and as any
approach to reasoning with her, or scolding her, seemed to harden her
already embittered little heart more and more, what was to be done, what
could be done, but leave her alone? She continued determinedly to
refuse, night and morning, to say her prayers, and refused, too, to say
grace at the nursery table when it was her turn. But of all this Mrs.
Caryll wisely desired Martin to take no notice, and not to try to force
the child to any formal utterance of words in which her heart had no
part.
"It _must_ be all right again soon if only we are patient with her,"
said Hoodie's mother, more cheerfully than she was really feeling, for
she saw that Martin was very much worried and distressed about Hoodie,
and she was anxious to encourage her.
"It is to be hoped so, ma'am, I'm sure," was Martin's rather hopeless
reply.
Somewhat to everybody's surprise, on the third day Hoodie condescended
to ask a favour. Might she go out for a walk alone with Lucy? Everybody
was so enchanted at her seeming to take interest in anything or wishing
for anything, that with some conditions her request was at once granted.
It was arranged that she should set off with Lucy and go wherever she
wished, with the understanding that she would meet Martin and the other
children at four o'clock at a certain point on the road, as it was not
convenient that Lucy should stay out longer. To this Hoodie agreed.
"I'm going through the wood," she said. "I want to get some flowers that
grow there, and Lucy must take a basket and a knife to dig them up, and
then I'll tell her what to do."
"Very well, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, but privately she told Lucy not
to let the little girl go to the cottages at the edge of the wood, for
Martin had never forgotten the fright of Hoodie's escapade several
months ago. "If she gets in the way of going to that young woman's
cottage, she'll be for ever running off," she said. "So silly of the
people to encourage her, when they might see we didn't like it. We met
the young woman the other day, and she actually stopped short in the
road and began asking when Miss Hoodie was coming to see her again."
"But mamma says they're very respectable people, Martin," said Maudie,
who was standing by. "I don't think she would mind if Hoodie did go to
see them. Papa said one day he wished the young woman's husband was one
of our men. He's so steady."
"Hold your tongue, Miss Maudie," said Martin with unusual sharpness. She
knew that what the child said was true, but she had taken a prejudice
against the little family in Red Riding Hood's cottage, as the children
always called it, and when a good conscientious woman of Martin's age
and character once takes a prejudice, it is rather a hopeless matter!
Poor Maudie slid away, feeling in her turn that things were rather hard
upon her. She had been very patient and gentle with her strange-tempered
little sister these three days, and had tried not to feel hurt at
Hoodie's indifference to all her small overtures of sympathy. And now
to be told by Martin to hold her tongue when all she meant was to try to
make things better, was not easy to bear.
"I'm sure Hoodie wants to get flowers to put on birdie's grave," she
thought to herself, as she wiped away the tears called forth by Martin's
sharp words. "I think she _might_ have told me about it and asked me to
go too."
But she said nothing about it, and set off uncomplainingly on her
solitary walk with Martin, for the two little boys were spending the
afternoon with the children at the Rectory.
Hoodie marched Lucy straight off to the wood. Primroses were the flowers
on which her heart was set, for birdie's grave, as Maudie had guessed.
She had seen them growing in the wood in the spring in great numbers and
beauty, and no flower, she had settled in her mind, could look so pretty
on birdie's grave. She said very little to Lucy, having satisfied
herself that the knife to dig the roots up with and the basket to carry
them home in had not been forgotten, she walked along in silence. But
when they reached the wood and had gone some little way into it and no
primroses were to be seen Hoodie looked very much disappointed.
"There were such lots," she said to herself.
"Lots of what, Miss Hoodie?" asked Lucy, thinking her charge the oddest
child she had ever had to do with.
"Of p'imroses," said Hoodie. "That's what I came for, to plant them on
birdie's grave, you know, Lucy."
"Primroses," repeated Lucy. "Of course not now, Miss Hoodie. They're
over long ago. See, these are their leaves--lots of them."
She stooped as she spoke, and pointed out the primrose plants clustering
thickly at their feet. Hoodie stooped too, to look at them.
"Oh dear," she exclaimed. "Are the flowers all gone? What shall I do? If
we unplanted one, Lucy, and took it home, and watered it _lots_, twenty
times a day p'raps, wouldn't more flowers come?"
[Illustration: "Oh dear," she exclaimed. "Are the flowers all gone?"]
"Not this year, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy. "Not all the watering in the
world would make any flowers come before the spring, and watering too
much would kill the plant altogether."
"Oh dear," repeated Hoodie, "what shall I do?"
"Won't no other flowers do?" said Lucy. "There's violets still, and lots
of others in the garden that Hopkins would give you--much prettier than
primroses."
"No," said Hoodie, shaking her head, "none but p'imroses would do.
Birdie liked them best, I know, for when I put some once in the wires of
his cage, he chirped. When will the spring come, Lucy?"
"Not for a good bit, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, "it's only July now.
There's all the summer to go through, and then autumn when it begins to
get cold, and then all the cold winter, before the spring comes. A good
while--eight months, and there's more than four weeks in each month, you
know."
"I can't help it," said Hoodie, "only p'imroses will do. Please dig some
roots up, Lucy, and we'll plant them on birdie's grave. The green leaves
are a little pretty, and in the spring the flowers will come. And if I'm
dead before the spring," she added solemnly, "you mustn't forget to
water them all the same."
"Miss Hoodie!" said Lucy, reproachfully, "you should not talk that way
really. Your mamma wouldn't like it."
"Why not?" said Hoodie, "there's lots about deadening in the Bible and
in the church books, so it can't be naughty. I wouldn't mind, if only I
thought birdie was in heaven."
"We'd better be going on," said Lucy, rather anxious to give a turn to
the conversation, "or we'll be late for Martin and Miss Maudie. I've got
up two nice roots, and we may see some others that take your fancy as we
go on."
They made their way slowly through the wood--Hoodie peering about here
and there in search of primroses still, some two or three might, she
thought, possibly have been left behind, or some buds might by mistake
have bloomed later than their neighbours. For Hoodie, as you have seen,
was not easily convinced of anything that she did not wish to believe.
But all her peering was in vain; they reached the end of the little wood
without a single primrose showing its pretty face, and Hoodie was
obliged to content herself with the brightest and freshest plants they
could find, which Lucy good-naturedly dug up for her.
At the edge of the wood, the path led them in front of the cottage to
which three or four months ago Hoodie's memorable visit had been paid.
Lucy walked on quickly, talking of other things in hope of distracting
the little girl's attention till the forbidden ground was safely passed.
Vain hope. Hoodie came to a dead stand in front of the little garden
gate.
"That is the cottage where baby and its mother and the ugly man live,"
she announced to Lucy. "Once, a long time ago, I went there to tea.
Baby's mother asked me to come again some day."
"But not to-day, Miss Hoodie," said poor Lucy, nervously "we'd be too
late if we stopped now."
"No, not to-day," said Hoodie. "I don't want to go to-day. I'm too
unhappy about birdie to care for cakes now. I don't think I'll ever care
for cakes any more. Besides," with a slight hesitation, "she won't have
any ready. She said I was to let her know. _P'raps_ I'll let her know
some day."
She was turning to walk on, immensely to Lucy's relief, when the gleam
of some pale yellow flowers growing close under the cottage walls, up at
the other end of the long narrow strip of garden, caught her glance.
"Lucy," she cried. "I see some p'imroses in the garden. I must run in
and ask baby's mother to give me some. I'm sure she will."
She unfastened the wooden gate and was some steps up the path before
Lucy had time to reply.
"They're not primroses, Miss Hoodie," she said. "Indeed they're not. I
can see from here. They're quite another kind. Oh, do come back, Miss
Hoodie."
"I won't be a minute," said Hoodie, "I'd like some of the flowers any
way," and she began to run on again.
"Miss Hoodie," cried Lucy, driven to despair, "Martin said you mustn't
on no account go into the cottage."
Hoodie's wrath and self-will were instantly aroused.
"Well then, Martin had no business to say so," she replied. "_Mamma_
never said I wasn't to go. She said I should go some day to see the
baby again and to thank baby's mother."
"But not by yourself--without Martin, Miss Hoodie. Your mamma always
tells you to be obedient to Martin, I know."
Hoodie vouchsafed no answer, but marched on, up the little garden path
towards the house. Lucy looked after her in dismay. What should she do?
Following her and repeating Martin's orders would probably only make
Hoodie still more determined. Besides, Lucy was a very gentle, civil
girl; it was very disagreeable to her to think of going into the
cottage, and telling the owners of it that the child had been forbidden
to speak to them, and she gazed round her in perplexity, heartily
wishing that Miss Hoodie had not chosen her for her companion in her
walk. Suddenly, some distance off, coming across the fields, she
perceived two figures, a tall one and a little one. Lucy had good eyes.
"Martin and Miss Maudie," she exclaimed, with relief, and just glancing
back to see that Hoodie was by this time inside the cottage, she ran as
fast as she could to meet the new comers and tell of Hoodie's
disobedience.
She was all out of breath by the time she got up to them, though they
hastened their steps when they saw her coming--and at first Martin
could not understand what Lucy was saying. When she did so, she was
exceedingly put out.
"Run into the cottage, has she, Lucy?" she exclaimed. "And after all I
said! I really do think you might have managed her better, naughty
though she is. Oh dear me, I do wish she hadn't been allowed to come out
without me."
Maudie stood by in great trouble at Hoodie's misdoing.
"Martin will be so cross to her," she thought, "and Hoodie will speak
naughtily, I'm sure. I'll run on to the cottage first and tell her how
vexed Martin is, and beg her to come back quick and say she's sorry."
And before Martin and Lucy noticed what she was doing, she was half way
across the fields to the cottage.
The door stood open when she got there. Maudie peeped into the kitchen
but saw no one. "Hoodie," she called out softly, "are you there?"
No answer.
"Hoodie," called Maudie again, more loudly, "I've come to fetch you.
Martin's just coming."
Then Hoodie's voice sounded from above.
"I'm up here, Maudie. I came up here 'cos there was no one in the
kitchen. And baby's mother doesn't want me to stay 'cos poor baby's ill,
so I'll come."
Maudie could not, however, clearly distinguish what Hoodie said, so,
guided by the sound of Hoodie's voice, she in turn mounted the
ladder-like staircase which led to the sleeping-room above. Hoodie was
just preparing to come down, but when Maudie made her appearance she
drew back a little into the room.
"Baby's mother won't let me nurse baby," she said, "'cos she's ill,
though I'm sure I wouldn't hurt her. Do look at her, Maudie. You can't
think how pretty she is when she's well--but her face is very red
to-day--baby's mother thinks she's getting her teeth."
Maudie approached rather timidly. Certainly the baby's face was very
red.
"Please, miss," said its mother, "I think you'd better not stay. It's
very kind of you, and I'm that sorry I can't tell you, to ask you to
go."
"I've only _just_ come up-stairs," said Hoodie. "I waited ever so long
in the kitchen, 'cos I thought baby's mother was out, and that she'd
come in soon. And then I called out and I heard she was up-stairs, so I
came up, but she won't let me touch baby and I can nurse her so nicely."
"It isn't for that, miss," said Mrs. Lizzie in distress; "it's only
_for fear_ there should be anything catchin' about her. Doctor saw her
yesterday and thought it was only her teeth, still it's best to be
careful."
"Yes, thank you," said Maudie, "I think we'd better go. Perhaps we'll
come again when baby's better. Come, Hoodie."
With some difficulty she got Hoodie away, for though considerably
offended with baby's mother, Hoodie was much more inclined to stay and
argue it out with her, than to give in quietly. At the foot of the stair
they met Martin; Maudie explained things to her, and Martin's face grew
very grave. She was too really alarmed to be cross.
"Run out at once," she said, "both of you, into the open air, and stay
in the field till I come; I have sent Lucy home. Better know the worst
at once," she added to herself, as she climbed the steep little stair,
"oh dear, oh dear! who ever would have thought of such a thing?"