It's such a hateful place at Mrs. Wilkinson's," she went on, "everybody
calling me at once, and scolding me; and there are such a many people to
run errands for. You don't know what it is to run errands when you are
tired to death. And it's such a beautiful, splendid place where we're
going to!"

"What is your name, my dear?" I asked, sitting down on my box and taking
her on my lap. Such a thin, stunted little woman, precociously learned
in trouble! Yet she nestled in my arms like a true child, and a tear or
two rolled down her cheeks, as if from very contentment.

"Nobody has nursed me like this since mother died," she said. "I'm
Mary; but father always called me Minima, because I was the least in the
house. He kept a boys' school out of London, in Epping Forest, you know;
and it was so heavenly! All the boys were good to me, and we used to
call father Dominie. Then he died, and mother died just before him; and
he said,'Courage, Minima! God will take care of my little girl.' So the
boys' fathers and mothers made a subscription for me, and they got a
great deal of money, a hundred pounds; and somebody told them about this
school, where I can stay four years for a hundred pounds, and they all
said that was the best thing they could do with me. But I've had to stay
with Mrs. Wilkinson nearly two months, because she could not find a
governess to go with me. I hate her; I detest her; I should like to spit
at her!"

The little face was all aflame, and the large eyes burning.

"Hush! hush!" I said, drawing her head down upon my shoulder again.

"Then there is Mr. Foster," she continued, almost sobbing; "he torments
me so. He likes to make fun of me, and tease me, till I can't bear to go
into his room. Father used to say it was wicked to hate anybody, and I
didn't hate anybody then. I was so happy. But you'd hate Mr. Foster, and
Mrs. Foster, if you only knew them."

"Why?" I asked in a whisper. My voice sounded husky to me, and my throat
felt parched. The child's impotent rage and hatred struck a slumbering
chord within me.

"Oh! they are horrid in every way," she said, with emphasis; "they
frighten me. He is fond of tormenting any thing because he's cruel. We
had a cruel boy in our school once, so I know. But they are very
poor--poor as Job, Mrs. Wilkinson says, and I'm glad. Aren't you glad?"

The question jarred in my memory against a passionate craving after
revenge, which had died away in the quiet and tranquillit