Daybreak | Page 2

she said, "and I hate you all.
I never wanted to come here--they made me come--and I shan't stay if I
can help it. I shall run away, and take Frances."
Little Frances, meanwhile, clung crying to her sister, who went on
talking so wildly and passionately that Jane thought it better to make a
move to the lavatory with the younger children, and leave the new girls

for a time to themselves.
A great change passed over poor Kate's face when she and her sister
were once more alone together. The passion left it, and was replaced by
a melancholy smile. She sat down on the bed, took her little sister's
hand, and looked long into her face.
"Are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length.
"Not so badly, but I made a great noise, didn't I!"
Kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted her
out of bed.
"Now, Frances, darling, come with me to the window, and I will show
you the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles.
Look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such
strange, pale lights on the snow. Look at the icicles--did you ever see
such lovely ones! Look at the trees--every tiniest little branch covered
with frost! Look at the pictures the frost has made upon the
window,--see, there are forests,--and oh, more wonderful things than I
could tell.
"Nobody loves you and me, Frances. We've only got each other,--and I
hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). But I am glad
things are so pretty. One might almost think that somebody had loved
you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!"
Kate's eyes softened as she said this,--she had beautiful eyes, large and
dark. The rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of
purpose, but little feeling. Poor Kate! the furrows on her forehead, the
old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of much
hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past. She
was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little Frances in her
arms. It was no new attitude to Kate. Her figure was stunted and
slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her little
sister about; but the weight of little Frances had rested upon her in
another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts to
shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in appearance

was so marked between the two sisters. Frances with her soft little pink
and white face, her solemn eyes, and smiling mouth, and without a hard
line anywhere, looked as if life had smiled upon her.
All through the day the little strangers kept close together, and took
very little notice of what went on around them. They ate their
Christmas dinner in solemn silence, and declined to join in the games.
Mother Agnes was disappointed, for her whole heart was bound up in
her children's happiness; and least of all she could bear to see sad faces
on Christmas Day. She watched Kate with much interest, but could not
wholly understand her.
* * * * * *
Before many months had passed, a curious transformation came over
Kate. She became the recognised leader of the children. Mother Agnes
saw with despair Jane's influence waning before that of this strange
new girl. Jane was so safe, so true, so dependable; and Kate, well, who
could trust Kate, with her odd ways of going on? Sometimes she would
keep the younger ones awake half the night telling them the wildest of
tales. She had laws of her own for the play-hours, and a secret system
of rewards and punishments. But, worst of all, she was not
straightforward. Mother Agnes, with her true, honest nature, was cut to
the heart to find that Kate could act a part, and did not scruple to do so,
to shield herself and her little sister from punishment.
Kate was popular now, and yet no one loved her, and she loved no one
except little Frances. She never thought any trouble too great to be
taken for her little sister. If any one said a rough word to Frances, Kate
contrived to punish the offender in a way that was not easily forgotten.
She helped Frances with her lessons; shielded her from blame; dressed
dolls for her through whole long summer afternoons; told her stories
that aimed vaguely at having a good moral; answered her childish
questions with infinite patience.
The summer and autumn passed, and Christmas came and went; and
after Christmas an event happened, the memory of which no