The Old Pincushion Part 12

Miss Clotilda had left off her darning in the interest of the conversation. For a minute or two no one spoke. Then with a little effort Miss Clotilda seemed to recall her thoughts to the present.

'She must be a very nice child--that little Philippa,' she said, 'and very unselfish. It is not many children who would be able to think of anything but their own affairs in her place just now. I do feel for her, poor dear, having to go back to school, and all her companions away.'

She hesitated, as if on the point of saying more, but no words came.

Then she took up her darning again.

'I wish'--Kathie began, and then she too stopped short. Neville glanced at her.

'I believe I know what you wish,' he said. 'And,' he went on boldly, 'I believe aunty is thinking of the very same thing.'

Again the poor tablecloth came off badly. Miss Clotilda let it fall, and in her turn she looked at both the children.

'I daresay you do know what was in my mind, Neville,' she said. 'It would be almost unnatural not to think of it.'

'You mean,' said Kathie, half timidly, 'if we could ask poor Phil to come here--if _you_ could, I should say, aunty.'

'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda, 'that was what I was thinking. I do feel so for the poor dear child. I know so well, so sadly well, what it is to be alone in that way. My mother, you know, dears, your grandmother, died when I was thirteen, and till her death I had never been separated from her. And then I was sent to school altogether, holidays and all, for three years, for your grandfather went abroad. I did not even see my little brother--dear little David--for all that time, for one of our aunts who had children of her own took care of him. It did not so much matter to him, for he was only a year old when our mother died, and so he was only four when we were together again. And it seems to him--I do like to feel that--that I was always with him. But for me those three years were--really--dreadful. Even now I can scarcely bear to think of them;' and Miss Clotilda gave a little s.h.i.+ver.

'Philippa cried awfully when she first came,' said Kathleen. 'She really did nothing but cry.

'And you were good to her--I am sure you were, as she is so fond of you,' said her aunt.

Kathie blushed a little.

'Her mother asked me to be kind to her,' she said, 'and I tried to be because I promised. But I didn't care much for her at first, aunty. I didn't understand her caring so dreadfully, and you mustn't think me horrid, for I do understand better now--it bothered me. But she got so fond of me--she fancied I was so much kinder than I really was, that--that I got very fond of her. And I think I've learnt some things from her--the same sort of things you make me feel, aunty.'

This was a wonderfully 'sentimental' speech to come from thoughtless Kathie. But both her hearers 'understood.'

'She must be a dear little girl,' said Miss Clotilda again. 'I should love to have her here, if--'

'I know, aunty,' Neville interrupted. 'It is the expense. I know it is already a great deal for you to have _us_.'

'No, dear,' said Miss Clotilda, 'it really is not so. People--my old neighbours and friends--are so kind. They are always sending presents just now. And one other little girl could not make much difference. It is more a sort of shrinking that I have from explaining things to strangers--a sort of false shame, perhaps. It _should_ all have been so different.'

'Dear aunty,' said both the children, 'we wouldn't like you to do it if you feel that way.'

But Miss Clotilda was evidently not satisfied.

'She is a simple-minded child, is she not?' she asked in a little. 'Not the kind of child to be discontented with plain ways--our having only one servant, and so on, you know?'

'_Of course_ not,' said Kathleen. 'She would think it all lovely. And, aunty,' she went on, 'it _is_ lovely. You don't know how it all looks to us after school. Everything is so cold and stiff, and--and--not pretty there. And the things to eat here are so delicious; aren't they, Neville? The fruit and the milk and the bread and b.u.t.ter. Oh, aunty!'

'What, my dear?'

'_Don't_ you think you could? What room would Phil have?'

'I was thinking of the one next yours. It is small, but we could make it look nice. There is no dearth of anything in the way of linen and such things in the house. Mrs. Wynne had such beautiful napery--that is the old word for it, you know--and she took such a pride in it. I must show you the linen-room some day, Kathie. I have taken great pleasure in keeping it in perfect order for your mother.'

Again the sad feeling of disappointment.

'Kathie,' said, Neville, a minute or two later when their aunt had left the room, 'I want you to come out with me. You're not going to write to Philippa to-day, are you?

'No,' said Kathleen, 'not to-day. But I should like to send the letter to-morrow, for fear of her leaving her grandmother's. I will write to her this afternoon or this evening. I've lots to tell her--all about the journey, and the funny old farmer, and the carrier's cart.'

'Yes,' said Neville. 'If she comes here, Kathie, we'll manage better than that. I wonder if aunty would let us go to Hafod to meet her. Any way, I might go. Perhaps you'd rather stay to welcome her here--to put flowers in her room, and that sort of thing. Girls do so like all that.'

'So do boys too--at least, some boys. You _always_ bring me a nosegay on my birthday. I am sure you like flowers as much as any girl could,' said Kathie.

'I didn't mean flowers only. I meant--oh, fussing,' said Neville vaguely.

But Kathleen was too much taken up by the idea of Philippa's coming to be in a touchy humour.

'Do you really think, Neville,' she said,--'do you really and truly think aunty is going to ask her?'

'I don't know. I'm sure she'd like to--if she can. She's so awfully good and kind.'

'Yes,' Kathleen heartily agreed. 'I never even thought before that anybody _could_ be so kind.'

CHAPTER IX.

THE COTTAGE NEAR THE CREEK.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decorative K]

athleen was just finis.h.i.+ng a long letter to Philippa that afternoon in the library, when Miss Clotilda came into the room with her usual quiet step. Kathleen did not hear her till her aunt laid her hand on her shoulder. The little girl started.

'Oh, aunty,' she said, 'I've been writing to poor Phil. Such a long letter!'

'And long as it is, I'm afraid you will have to make it still a little longer,' said Miss Clotilda.

Something in the tone of her voice made Kathleen look up. Miss Clotilda was smiling, and her pale cheeks were a little pinker than usual.

'Listen to me, dear,' she said. 'I have thought it over, and it seems to me really right, only right and kind, to ask that poor child to come to us here. I have written to her uncle to propose it, and I have explained things just a little, saying that I am only here for a short time more, and that things are not as they used to be, but that we shall make her most welcome. I thought it best to write to the uncle, as her grandmother is so ill. You can give me the exact address, I suppose, and the uncle's name?'

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Kathie held up Philippa's letter.

'Yes, aunty,' she said. 'You see, it is written at the top. She told me to put "care of" to her uncle, because her name is not the same as his and her grandmother's. He is her mother's brother. But oh, dear aunty, I can scarcely believe you are really going to let her come! It is _too_ delicious.'

'It does not rest only with me, however, dear, you must remember,' Miss Clotilda said. 'You must not count upon it too surely till we hear from her friends. They may not approve of it, or there may be difficulties in the way of bringing her. It is rather a long way from Cheltenham, and an expensive journey.'

'I don't think that would matter,' said Kathleen. 'I'm almost sure Phil's relations are rich, and she is an only child.'