"What is it, indeed? One would think you should know that without asking. Shut the window, of course, and don't keep little Claude standing at it until he catches his death of cold. You must really try, Priscilla, to exercise your wits a little; I can't be everywhere at once, and there is no one else to manage anything now."
The girl made no reply, but turned and shut the window, and her own eyes for a moment also, as if she would have gladly shut out the spring sunshine and everything else in the world just then; for her young heart was aching, oh! so sorely, and she seemed to have but one wish—to be lying in the quiet grave where her loved mother had been laid to rest just three days before.
"No one to superintend anything now but Miss Vernon."
Oh! She knew that well. No one to care much what she did; no one ever to take her into loving arms, stroke back the sunny hair, and call her "Sissy, darling Sissy." No; from henceforth she would have to live without a mother's loving caresses, and learn to answer to the stiff-sounding name of Priscilla. Even her brothers—she had four of them, all younger than herself—only called her Prissy; and her father always addressed her as Priscilla. "Sissy" had been the mother's pet name for her.
As she left the room, the tramp, tramp of boyish feet met her ear, and up the stairs bounded three handsome boys—Lewis, the oldest, nearly fourteen; Austin, about one year younger; and Archie, a delicate-looking child of seven. They all clustered round their sister, their faces bright as if no tears had so lately stained them, fresh from the open air, and their youthful spirits rising, as the spirits of the young, thank God, will rise even after days of deep sorrow.
"Prissy!" they said in one breath, "do come out; it is delightful in the garden. And there are violets in the grove by the river-side; do come and gather them."
But Prissy turned away. What cared she for violets now when the one for whom she loved to gather them was no longer here to receive them? No, there was nothing in the world for her to care for—no one to whom she could give pleasure; and unheeding the pleading looks of her young brothers, she went to her own room. Ah, Prissy! There were hearts as loving as yours waiting for a look of sympathy, a word of kindness; they, too, miss a mother's welcome, a mother's interest in their simple pursuits, and turn away disappointed.
"Prissy might have come," muttered Archie.
"Oh! She does not care," said Lewis.
Only the grave-eyed Austin said kindly, "Poor Pris! I daresay she misses mother more than any of us. She didn't mean to be unkind, I am sure."