"Your turn, Mark," said Archie. "Hold out your paw!"
Reluctantly, Mark obeyed. The girl took his hand as she had taken Archie’s, very delicately, and smoothed the palm with a touch that was not unlike a caress. A puzzled smile curled her red lips. The old woman peered over her shoulder. Again the girl stroked the boy’s palm, and he winced.
"Shrinks from a woman’s touch," said the old woman.
"A happy hand," she muttered, "a happy hand, the hand of the free giver, the blessed hand, the kind hand, and the strong hand. Ah, but what is this? Sorrow, suffering, disappointment! And love," her harsh voice softened: "you will love deeply and be loved in return. You are the child of love——"
"I see more," said the girl softly, taking Mark’s hand again. "This is the hand of a fighter, mother."
Before Mark could draw his hand away, she had bent down and kissed it. Then she laughed and tossed her pretty head.
"He’d like a kiss on the mouth," she said, eyeing Archie saucily, "but he won’t get one from me."
Betty Kirtling, when a child, had been heard to say: "I like girls, but I love boys." Perhaps, beneath the smiles of the prim little English misses who came to play with her, she perceived jealousies and meanness, whereas the boys displayed hearts full of love, with no room for anything else where she was concerned. The second Mrs. Samphire maintained Betty to be a spoiled beauty before she was out of pinafores; but Lady Randolph, a finer judge of character, held the contrary opinion. The Admiral, it is true, set his niece upon a pedestal: an action of which the nurse, Esther Gear, took fair advantage. "Lor bless me, Miss Betty! what would your uncle say? You know he thinks you one of the angels," was a phrase often in her mouth, and one not to be disregarded by a child who valued the good opinion of others. "My dear," Lady Randolph would add, "you must never disappoint your uncle. If he knew you had told a fib, it would make him very unhappy." When the time came to choose a governess, she selected a lady of strong character, whose seeming severity was tempered by a sense of humour and justice. Betty hated her at first, and then learned to love her. Almost irredeemably ugly, with a square masculine head surmounting a tall, lean, awkward figure, Miriam Hazelby made the large impression of one hard to please, but for whose affection and esteem it were worth striving. Her manner, however, was repellent. The austerity of feature and deportment chilled a stranger to the marrow; her harsh voice, emphatic in denouncing humbug and vanity and luxury, only softened when she was speaking of suffering; then a quick ear might catch minor harmonies, captivating because elusive.