To
have enquired further would have seemed to her impious. How was it
they were not both killed?"
"Providence," was Robina's suggestion: it seemed to be the only one
possible. "They lifted off one of the saucepans and just dropped the
thing in--fortunately wrapped up in a brown paper parcel, which gave
them both time to get out of the house. At least Veronica got clear
off. For a change it was not she who fell over the mat, it was the
boy."
I looked again into the kitchen; then I returned and put my hands on
Robina's shoulders. "It is a most amusing incident--as it has turned
out," I said.
"It might have turned out rather seriously," thought Robina.
"It might," I agreed: "she might be lying upstairs."
"She is a wicked, heartless child," said Robina; "she ought to be
punished."
I lent Robina my handkerchief; she never has one of her own.
"She is going to be punished," I said; "I will think of something."
"And so ought I," said Robina; "it was my fault, leaving her, knowing
what she's like. I might have murdered her. She doesn't care.
She's stuffing herself with cakes at this very moment."
"They will probably give her indigestion," I said. "I hope they do."
"Why didn't you have better children?" sobbed Robina; "we are none of
us any good to you."
"You are not the children I wanted, I confess," I answered.
"That's a nice kind thing to say!" retorted Robina indignantly.
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