that little room which the great house could not give her.
Maud was twelve now; a pale, plain child, with sharp, intelligent
eyes, and a busy little mind, that did a good deal more thinking
than anybody imagined. She was just at the unattractive, fidgety
age when no one knew what to do with her, and so let her fumble
her way up as she could, finding pleasure in odd things, and living
much alone, for she did not go to school, because her shoulders
were growing round, and Mrs. Shaw would not “allow her figure to
be spoiled.” That suited Maud excellently; and whenever her father
spoke of sending her again, or getting a governess, she was seized
with bad headaches, a pain in her back, or weakness of the eyes, at
which Mr. Shaw laughed, but let her holiday go on. Nobody
seemed to care much for plain, pug-nosed little Maudie; her father
was busy, her mother nervous and sick, Fanny absorbed in her own
affairs, and Tom regarded her as most young men do their younger
sisters, as a person born for his amusement and convenience,
nothing more. Maud admired Tom with all her heart, and made a
little slave of herself to him, feeling well repaid if he merely said,
“Thank you, chicken,” or did n’t pinch her nose, or nip her ear, as
he had a way of doing, “just as if I was a doll, or a dog, and had n’t
got any feelings,” she sometimes said to Fanny, when some service
or sacrifice had been accepted without gratitude or respect. It
never occurred to Tom, when Maud sat watching him with her
face full of wistfulness, that she wanted to be petted as much as
ever he did in his neglected boyhood, or that when he called her
“Pug” before people, her little feelings were as deeply wounded as
his used to be, when the boys called him “Carrots.” He was fond of
her in his fashion, but he did n’t take the trouble to show it, so
Maud worshipped him afar off, afraid to betray the affection that
no rebuff could kill or cool.
One snowy Sunday afternoon Tom lay on the sofa in his favorite
attitude, reading “Pendennis” for the fourth time, and smoking like
a chimney as he did so. Maud stood at the window watching the
falling flakes with an anxious countenance, and presently a great
sigh broke from her.
“Don’t do that again, chicken, or you ‘ll blow me away. What’s the
matter?” asked Tom, throwing down his book with a yawn that
threatened dislocation.
“I ‘m afraid I can’t go to Polly’s,” answered Maud, disconsolately.
“Of course you can’t; it ‘s snowing hard, and father won’t be home
with the carriage till this evening. What are you always cutting off
to Polly’s for?”
“I like it; we have such nice times, and Will is there, and we bake
little johnny-cakes in the baker before the fire, and they sing, and it
is so pleasant.”
“Warbling johnny-cakes must be interesting. Come and tell me all
about it.”
“No, you ‘ll only laugh at me.”
“I give you my word I won’t, if I can help it; but I really am dying
of curiosity to know what you do down there. You like to hear
secrets, so tell me yours, and I ‘ll be as dumb as an oyster.”
“It is n’t a secret, and you would n’t care for it. Do you want
another pillow?” she added, as Tom gave his a thump.
“This will do; but why you women always stick tassels and fringe
all over a sofa-cushion, to tease and tickle a fellow, is what I don’t
understand.”
“One thing that Polly does Sunday nights, is to take Will’s head in
her lap, and smooth his forehead. It rests him after studying so
hard, she says. If you don’t like the pillow, I could do that for you,
’cause you look as if you were more tired of studying than Will,”
said Maud, with some hesitation, but an evident desire to be useful
and agreeable.
“Well, I don’t care if you do try it, for I am confoundedly tired.”