some very severe illness. In the kitchen—where, of course, the servants, through some mysterious means, knew everything—there was much discussion of his case. He was not an Indian gentleman really, but an Englishman who had lived in India. He had met with great misfortunes which had for a time so imperilled his whole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and disgraced forever. The shock had been so great that he had almost died of brain fever; and ever since he had been shattered in health,
thin little chest heaved up and down, and she spoke in a strange unchildishly fierce way.
“You are not kind,” she said. “You are NOT kind, and it is NOT a home.” And she had turned and run out of the room before Miss Minchin could stop her or do anything but stare after her with stony anger.
She went