Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus’ lips. He was kinder than usual the rest of the evening, and read her to sleep with the Pilgrim’s Progress.
Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. Or where she misunderstood, it was an honest misunderstanding, which never does much hurt. Neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her good night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still face. The father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she was better without, and the stepmother had to become a mother before she could value her.
Phosy went to bed to dream of the Valley of Humiliation.