Stories of a Governess by Annie Fisler

Author:Annie Fisler [Fisler, Annie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-09-06T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER IX.

sun had gone down; the gay, busy voices of the children were hushed as twilight came on. Jennie put down her silk, which she was patiently trying to untangle. Lillie laid aside her stocking, and Rosie crept to Miss Lane, putting her brown head on the lady’s knee, while Frank stretched himself with Tan on the rug before the crackling fire.

The wind whistled and howled and moaned, the sky was gray and wintry; but within doors everything was comfortable and nice.

“It is just the time for a story!” suggested Lillie, slyly, and—“Oh, please do,” began Rosie, while Frank and Jennie started forward eagerly.

“I think I have nearly exhausted myself: it would really be a difficult matter to get up a story now, I have told you so many.”

“Oh! tell us one about yourself—something about you when you were a little girl,” exclaimed Rosie.

“Well, I will tell you about something that happened to me once. I cannot promise that it will be very interesting, but it is all true. My mother died when I was only a little baby, and I had always been with my father. He took the care of me that usually falls to a mother’s share. I was very fond of him, indeed, and he called me his ‘Joy.’ He gave me a great many beautiful things, and taught me every day. I never played with other children, because I scarcely ever saw any, and did not go to school. I think I shall never forget our long evenings together, when sometimes we sat for hours without speaking, and papa only roused himself when the light began to grow dim.

“I was timid, and used to be very much afraid of going through the long hall alone to my own room, but I never told papa of it, and kept up my courage by feeling that God was around me always.

“It was a lonesome old house, too, with heavy, trailing vines covering the long porch and darkening the lower windows. We seldom entered the parlor; it was a dark room, with rich, thick carpet, and old, heavy furniture, and between the two front windows was an immense mirror, which always showed me my demure, frightened little figure, the first thing when the door was opened.

“There were dark, curiously shaped vases on the tables, and over the mantelpiece hung my mother’s portrait. I used to stand in awe of that, though the face was a young and laughing one, but the bright, dark eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved, and the half-opened lips seemed ever going to speak. I used to have such a longing to hear one word from those lips. I could remember nothing of my mother, and papa never mentioned her name. It was only when I went to my aunt’s that I learned the manner of her death even, and I was ever yearning, with the curiosity of childish love, to know something of her.

“In papa’s room there was a casket of

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