Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/117

somebody starts up from somewhere and says I am to go here, or stay there, or eat this, or learn that. I’m not one bit free.”

“But, Pamela, we’re none of us a bit free—I’ve often heard papa say so. It’s like that in whatever walk in life one is placed.” (Hester had lately been promoted to a class in the Sunday School, and her conversation at present was thickly sown with phrases which she stored up and practised on her unresponsive class.)

“Most people are a good deal freer than I am, anyhow,” Pamela persisted. “You are yourself, Hester.”

“In a way. But none of your cousins are. They all have governesses and masters, and aren’t allowed out alone, any more than you are. I suppose you get your ideas out of books, Pamela. It seems a pity to read things that make one discontented.”

Did she get her ideas from books? Yes, perhaps she did. Pamela lost herself in a train of thought, oblivious of Hester, who asked her presently:

“Are you cross?”

“No. At least, never mind. We’ll talk about other things.” Already Pamela’s soft heart reproached her, for she had been cross to Hester. She took her hand with a friendly squeeze, and asked what it was like to teach in Sunday School.