Hoodie Part 12

"Very well," said Magdalen, remembering Maudie's explanation of the mysterious phrase, "very well. I won't interrupt you. You may say any words you like."

"Well then," began Hoodie again. "_Onst_ there was a little girl. She was called--no, I won't tell zou what she was called--she had a papa and mamma and bruvvers and a sister, but zey didn't like her much."

She stopped.

"Dear me," said Magdalen, finding she was expected to say something, "that was very sad."

"Yes," said Hoodie, "vezy sad."

"Why didn't they like her?"

"'Cos zey thoughtened she was naughty. Zey was alvays saying she was naughty."

"Perhaps she was," said Magdalen.

"Nebber mind," said Hoodie, "I want to go on. One day a lady comed what wasn't _hern_ G.o.dmozer, so she didn't like her, and she toldened her she was ugly. But zen--oh zen she founded out that she wasn't ugly but she was pretty, vezy, vezy pretty--oh, she was so nice, and the little girl liked her vezy much--wasn't zat a nice story?"

"Beautiful," said Miss King. "All except the part about her papa and mamma and sister and brothers not liking her. I don't like that part."

"Nebber mind," replied Hoodie again. "Nebber mind about zat part zen.

Doesn't zou like about the lady? Can zou guess who it was?"

"Let me see," said Magdalen, solemnly. "I must think. A lady came that wasn't _her_ G.o.dmother--dear me, who could it be?"

"It was zou; it was zou," cried Hoodie, jumping up in bed and rus.h.i.+ng at her cousin. "And the little girl was Hoodie, 'cos I do like zou now. I do, I do, and I'll be vezy good all day, to please you."

"That's my dear little girl," said Cousin Magdalen, really gratified.

"But won't you try to be good to please your papa and mamma too--and most of all, Hoodie dear, to please G.o.d."

She lowered her voice a little, and Hoodie looked at her gravely.

"I don't know," she said. "I couldn't try such a long time and zey _alvays_ says I'm naughty. No, I'll just please zou; n.o.body else, and if zou aren't pleased, I'll sc'eam. I can sc'eam in a minute."

Magdalen grew alarmed.

"Please don't," she said. "I'll be very pleased if you don't. And when you see how nice it is to please me, perhaps you'll go on trying to please everybody."

Hoodie shook her head.

"Zey _alvays_ says I'm naughty," she repeated.

Just then there came a knock at the door, and Martin put her head in.

"Is Miss Hoodie awake yet, ma'am?" she inquired. "And I do hope she's let you have some sleep?"

"Oh, yes indeed, thank you, Martin," said Miss King, cheerfully. "We have got on _very_ well, haven't we, Hoodie? And I think you are going to have a very good little girl in the nursery to-day."

"I hope so, I'm sure, ma'am," said Martin, rather dolefully. Her tone did not sound as if her hopes were very high, and Hoodie's next remark did not make them higher.

"Yes," she said, "I is going to be good--vezy, vezy good, _too_ good.

But it isn't to please zou, Martin. It's all to please _her_," pointing to Miss King, "and not zou, one bit. 'Cos I like her; she didn't scold me about the c.o.c.k--she zanked me, and she's going to tell me a story."

"Hoodie," said Magdalen gravely, "I don't call it beginning to be good to tell Martin you don't care to please her one bit."

"Can't please ev'ybody," said Hoodie, with a toss of her s.h.a.ggy head; "takes such a long time."

"But speaking that way to Martin doesn't please _me_," persisted Magdalen.

"Very well zen, I won't," said Hoodie, with unusual amiability. "I'll give Martin a kiss if you like. Only you must have the story ready the minute moment Maudie's done her letsons--will zou?"

"Yes," said Magdalen, "it'll be quite ready."

So Hoodie went off triumphantly in Martin's arms, things looking so promising that by the time they reached the nursery, the two were the best of friends.

And, "what a nice little young lady you might be, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, encouragingly, "if you was always good."

Magdalen was ready for the children as she had promised. It was such a mild beautiful day, though only April, that she got leave to take them out-of-doors for the story-telling, and in a favourite corner, sunny yet sheltered, they settled their little camp-stools in a circle round her and prepared to listen.

"Only," said wise Maudie, "if Hec and Duke get very tired they may run about a little, mayn't they, Cousin Magdalen?"

"If even they get a _little_ tired they may run about," said her G.o.dmother. "But I don't think they will. It is a sort of nonsense story, not clever enough to tire any of you."

"What's it called, please?" said Maudie.

"I'm not sure that it has a name," said Magdalen, "but if you'd rather it had one, we'll call it 'The Chintz Curtains.'"

"Please begin then, and say it in very little words for Hec and Duke to understand, won't you?"

Magdalen nodded her head, and began.

"Once," she said, "once there was a little girl."

"That's how my story began," said Hoodie, with the funny twinkle in her eyes again.

"Never mind, _don't_ interrumpt," said Maudie.

"Well," Magdalen went on, "this little girl had no brothers or sisters, and though her father and mother were very kind to her she was sometimes rather lonely. And she often wished for other children to play with her.

It happened one winter that she got ill--I am not sure what the illness was--measles, or something like that, it wasn't anything very, very bad, but still she was ill enough to be several days quite in bed, and several more partly in bed, and even after that a good many more before she could get up early to breakfast as usual, and do her lessons and run about in the garden, and play like _well_ children. She didn't much mind being ill, not as much as you would, I don't think. For, you see, except just for the few days that she felt weak and giddy and really ill, staying in bed didn't seem to make very much difference to her, indeed in some ways it was rather nicer. She had lots of storybooks to read--several of her friends sent her presents of new ones--and certainly more dainty things to eat than when she was well--"

"Delly?" said Hec. "Duke and me had delly when we was ill."

"Yes," said Maudie, "last winter Hec and Duke had the _independent_ fever, and they had to have jelly and beef-tea and things like that to make them strong again."

"Yes," said Magdalen, "that was why Lena--I forgot to tell you that that was the little girl's name--that was why they gave all those nice things to little Lena. But the worst of it was she didn't like them nearly as much as when she was well, and she often wished they would give her just common things, bread and b.u.t.ter and rice-pudding, you know, when she was ill, and keep all the very nice things for a treat when she was well and could enjoy them. She was getting well, of course; by the time it comes to thinking about what you have to eat, children generally are getting well; but she was rather slow about it, and even when she was up and about again as usual, she didn't _feel_ or look a bit like usual. She was thin and white, and whatever she did tired her. Something queer seemed to have come over all her dolls and toys; they had all grown stupid in some tiresome way, and when she tried to sew, which she was generally rather clever at, all her fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs."

"How dedful," said Hoodie, stretching out her two chubby hands and gravely gazing at them. "All zumbs wouldn't look pretty at all. I hope mine won't never be like that if I get ill."