Susan | Page 9

she roused herself
sufficiently to say:
"Maria, I can hear noises in the street here just like there are at home."
Maria's answer was the last sound she heard that night: "Bless yer 'art,
Miss Susan, that ain't noises in the street. That's that botherin' sea goin'
on like that. Worse luck!"

CHAPTER TWO.
"SOPHIA JANE."
Poor Maria was to go back to London the next morning, and she came
into Susan's room early to say good-bye, prepared for her journey in a
very tearful state. It was not merely that she looked forward with
anything but pleasure to another sea-voyage, but she had an
affectionate nature, and, was fond of Susan, who on her side was sorry
to think that she should not see Maria again. There were many parting
messages to be conveyed to Mother, and Nurse, and Freddie. But at last
it was really time to go, and Maria tore herself away with difficulty,
hurriedly pressing into Susan's hand a new sixpence with a hole in it.
She was gone now, and had taken the last bit of home with her--Susan
was for the first time in her life alone with strangers. As she dressed
herself she looked forward with alarm to meeting them all at breakfast,
for she could not even remember what they were like last night; they
seemed all mixed up together like things in a dream.
At last she gathered courage to leave the room, made her way very
slowly down-stairs, and opening the first door she came to on the
ground floor peeped timidly in. There was no one there, but the table
was laid for breakfast, and she went in and stood before the fire. It was
a long room, very low, with faded furniture, and a French window
opening into a small garden, where there were gooseberry bushes. At
the end opposite the fireplace there were two steps leading up to a door,
and Susan wondered what was on the other side of it. On the
mantelpiece, and in a corner cupboard and on a side-table, there were
quantities of blue china mugs and plates and dishes, which she thought
were queer things to have for ornaments; there were also some funny
little figures carved in ivory and wood--dear little stumpy elephants
amongst them, which she liked very much. The only picture in the
room she presently noticed, hung over the fireplace in an oval frame. It
was a portrait of a gentleman with powdered hair and a pig-tail; his
eyes were as blue as the cups and dishes; he was clean shaven, and
wore a blue coat and a very large white shirt frill. As Susan was
looking up at him the door at the end of the room opened, and a

maid-servant came stepping down with a dish in her hand. Susan could
now see that the door led straight into a kitchen, which she thought odd
but rather interesting. Almost immediately Aunt Hannah, the two girls
she had seen the night before, and a little girl of about her own age
came in, and they all sat down to breakfast. In spite of great shyness,
Susan was able to take many furtive glances at her companions, and
was relieved to find that at any rate Aunt Hannah was not a bit like
what Freddie had said. She was a tall, straight old lady with a high cap,
black curls, and a velvet band across her forehead. She did not look
either witch-like or cross, and Susan felt that she should not be afraid of
her when she knew her better. She soon found that the names of the two
"grown-up" girls, as she called them in her mind, were Nanna and
Margaretta; Nanna was fair and freckled, and Margaretta very swarthy,
with a quantity of black curls. They chattered and laughed incessantly,
and tried to pet Susan and make her talk, but did not succeed very well.
She thought she did not like either of them much, and wished they
would leave her alone, for she was interested in watching the
movements of the little girl and wondering who she was. She was a
very thin little thing with high shoulders and skinny arms, dressed in a
dingy-green plaid frock. Everything about her looked sharp--her chin
was sharp, her elbows were sharp; the glances she cast at Susan over
her bread and milk were sharp, and when she spoke her voice sounded
sharp also. Her features were not ugly, but her expression was
unchildlike and old. No one seemed to notice her much, but if Nanna or
Margaretta said anything to her, it was not in the coaxing tones they
used to Susan, but had a reproving sound.
After breakfast came prayers, in which Buskin the maid-servant joined,
sitting