The Last of the Mortimers

less, provoking little puss; there c

that hair of mine; it had to be brushed out at night, however sleepy I was, and it had to be

me on your hands. Do you ever do anything

now I won’t work—I tell everybody{24} so plainly. What’s the good of it? I hate crochet and cushions and footstools. If I had some little childr

p some little children tidy, or mend papa’s st

how Mary would giggle and laugh and rejoice over me! She has to do it, and doesn’t like it a bit, you may be sure. And suppose I were making frocks for poor children, like the Dorcas society, wouldn’t all the sensible people be on me to say how very much better it would be to have poor women m

u could do good; the best th

talking to people; and besides, they are all, every one of them,” said Sara, with tears,

ht thing to say, I can’t undertake, upon my honour, that I thought a spoiled child like Sara Cresswell was

nor a quarter, nor a hundredth part so miserable as I am! And the woman looked so cheerful and{25} right with the baby in her arms, and all the cleaning to do—I cried and ran off home when I got out of that house. I was ashamed, just dead ashamed, godmamma, and nothing else.—Doing good!—oh!—I think if I were the little girl, coming in to hold the baby, and hel

say you’ll have your hard work some day or other, and won’t like it a

toss of her provoking little head, “I had be

disgusted you are with being a rich man’s daughter and having nothing to do, yet you cut off your hair to save time, and go on quite composedly

in the bank, or wherever he keeps it. He told me once it was my own means I was wasting, for, of course, it would be all mine when he died,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with proud tears and wounded feeling; “as if that made any difference! But

o, before everything can be nice as we always have it? Should you like to be a housemaid wit

e out of her black eyes which confounded me. I thought the child had gone out of he

ma did not ask her. Dear, dear, what a very strange world this is! Poor Sarah chose to go out alone, driving drearily through the winterly trees and hedges; she chose always to turn aside from the village, which might have been a little cheerful, and she never dreamt of calling anywhere, poor soul! I have lived a quiet life

be in directly. What shall you do while you’re here? Should you like to come and set my papers straight? It’s nice, tiresom

ery slightest intention of obeying me, “just the very one I wanted, and I see by the first chapter tha

ust be do

lease—you are not obliged to keep time like a dress

kings to mend, would you let them stand till you had finished your novel

orner of a distant sofa, and went off like the wind to the library, where I did my business and kept my papers. I had