"Well, and must you strike the poor dog for that!--he feels it just as much as you would."
"Nobody beat him, Miss; only he put his head into the milk-ewer, and could not get it out again."
"Yes, because you are all so disorderly.--Come here, little Feeske! You should not have left the milk-ewer on the fireplace--come here, my poor little dog; did these bad people hurt you?"
She was obliged to break the ewer to free the little dog's head.
"Sure it's the pretty ewer that's to be pitied," said one of the servants, laughing.
"Well, I would not let the dog suffer for the sake of a ewer;" and then she returned to her father with a beaming countenance. "Have I not scolded them all well!"
Towards the end of breakfast, the footman entered with the letters and newspapers, which the messenger brought weekly from town.
Uncle Gabor opened the Jelenkor newspaper, and followed Espartero and Zummalacarreguy with great attention, while Linka glanced over the peaceful columns of the Regelo--for it was only in the evening that she had time to read it through. As she opened the last page, her eyes fell on a sonnet, entitled, "To Lina B----ssy." She started as if she had looked into a book of incantations, and closed the paper so suddenly, that the old gentleman, who was just standing before the cannons of a naval engagement, cried out, "What's the matter, my child?"
"Nothing at all, papa," replied Linka, changing colour, "only the paper nearly fell out of my hand."
So far was true. Uncle Gabor hastened back to the engagement, lest anything should have taken place in the mean time.
Lina folded the paper quite small, and thrust it into the pocket of her apron; then, taking up her watering-pot, she glided noiselessly out of the room, and ran into the garden. She was determined not to read the paper. She would either burn it, or put it away where nobody should find it. With this firm intention, she began to water her carnations and violets, all the time turning in her mind where she could most conveniently hide the sonnet--for, after all, it would be very hard-hearted to burn it.
At last she remembered the glass-house, and hastened thither with the intention of putting the paper under one of the great cactus pots. She looked round on entering, to see that she was quite alone. Loneliness is the godmother of every weakness, and when she took the paper out of her pocket she could not withstand the temptation of looking once more into it--nobody would see if she blushed--and, with trembling hands, as if she were committing something very scandalous, she unfolded the paper, and read with a beating heart the lines addressed to her.