"And that's why you're sad," he said at its conclusion. "If only the
prince had not done what the witch told him, you'd have been perfectly
happy, wouldn't you?"
Sally put her arm round his neck, lifted the soft, smooth little face
to hers, and kissed it.
"Yes, that's why," she said gently; "but you must never tell any one."
"Mayn't I tell mummy?" he pleaded.
She took her arm from his neck and looked straight before her. The
moment of jealousy sped through her--shame rode fierce behind.
"Yes," she replied, "you can tell mummy."
The weeks of the summer flew by. No sympathy was lost between her
mother and herself. Her sisters frankly were jealous of her. She had
better clothes than they, knew more of the world, was more
interesting to strangers in her conversation. The people of Cailsham,
treating her first as one of the Bishops--the one who had lived in
London, earning her living--came to find that she was a different
type of person to the rest of her family. The women admitted her to
look smart; the men--at the weekly teas which some member of the
tennis club always provided--sought out her company. And then, to
compensate for all the unpleasantness in her home, there was
Maurie--Maurie whom every night since that first occasion of their
friendship she said good night to.
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