Susan | Page 9

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 a little apart at the end of the room with a severe look on her face. Then Aunt Hannah sat down in the arm-chair near the fire. "And now, my little Susan," she said, "come here and talk to me."
Susan stood submissively at her side, and answered all the questions put to her about Mother and Freddie and herself; but she did not do much of the talking, for she was shy, and everything seemed forlorn and strange to her. What a comfort Maria's well-known face would have been! As it was, the only familiar object was her doll Grace, which she had brought down-stairs, and now held tightly clutched