“It’s only her first awkwardness, my boy. She’ll be all right.”
“That’s it, mother,” he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy. “You know, she’s not like you, mother. She’s not serious, and she can’t think.”
“She’s young, my boy.”
“Yes; and she’s had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a child. Since then she’s lived with her aunt, whom she can’t bear. And her father was a rake. She’s had no love.”
“No! Well, you must make up to her.”
“And so—you have to forgive her a lot of things.”
“What do you have to forgive her, my boy?”
“I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she’s never had anybody to bring her deeper side out. And she’s fearfully fond of me.”
“Anybody can see that.”
“But you know, mother—she’s—she’s different from us. Those sort of people, like those she lives amongst, they don’t seem to have the same principles.”
“You mustn’t judge too hastily,” said Mrs. Morel.
But he seemed uneasy within himself.
In the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house.
“Hello!” he called, sitting on the stairs. “Are you getting up?”
“Yes,” her voice called faintly.
“Merry Christmas!” he shouted to her.
Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did not come down in half an hour.
“Was she really getting up when she said she was?” he asked of Annie.
“Yes, she was,” replied Annie.
He waited awhile, then went to the stairs again.
“Happy New Year,” he called.
“Thank you, Chubby dear!” came the laughing voice, far away.
“Buck up!” he implored.
It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, who always rose before six, looked at the clock.
“Well, it’s a winder!” he exclaimed.
The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of the stairs.
“Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?” he
