" She recalled too much--too much all
at once. Her eyes grew rounder and larger with inescapable woe;
"Donal did! Donal!" And suddenly she hid her face deep in Dowson's
skirts and the tempest broke. She was so small a thing--so
inarticulate--and these were her dead! Dowson could only catch
her in her arms, drag her up on her knee, and rock her to and fro.
"Good Lord! Good Lord!" was her inward ejaculation. "And she not
seven! What'll she do when she's seventeen! She's one of them
there's no help for!"
It was the beginning of an affection. After this, when Dowson tucked
Robin in bed each night, she kissed her. She told her stories and
taught her to sew and to know her letters. Using some discretion
she found certain little playmates for her in the Gardens. But there
were occasions when all did not go well, and some pretty, friendly
child, who had played with Robin for a few days, suddenly seemed
to be kept strictly by her nurse's side. Once, when she was about
ten years old, a newcomer, a dramatic and too richly dressed little
person, after a day of wonderful imaginative playing appeared in the
Gardens the morning following to turn an ostentatious cold shoulder.
"What is the matter?" asked Robin.
"Oh, we can't play with you any more," with quite a flounce
superiority.
"Why not?" said Robin, becoming haughty herself.
"We can't. It's because of Lord Coombe.
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