CHAPTER XI.
A SUDDEN FALL
“WHAT has become of these two children of mine?” said Mrs. Wingfield fretfully, as on her return from her neighbour’s she found the cottage empty. “I’m sure such a day of bustle as I have had—scarce out of one trouble before I am into another! Well, poor Mrs. Bright is still worse off, that is one thing. I am glad that the baby has at last dropped asleep.”
It grew darker and darker. Mrs. Wingfield became uneasy. She stirred the fire, filled the kettle, then with a long weary sigh sat down to rest. She missed Minnie and her quiet attentions.
“I suppose that they are still out, searching for little Johnny. I fear that there will be rain. I wish that they were back.” Mrs. Wingfield fancied that she heard a low knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said; but no one entered. Mrs. Wingfield drew her chair nearer to the fire, leaned her head upon her hand, and wished that Tom and Minnie would not stay out so late.
Again the same low knock. She called out louder, “Come in,” and the faint light which came through the doorway was darkened by a figure which seemed to linger, as if in fear, on the threshold. Then the voice of poor Polly was heard—“O Mrs. Wingfield, can you tell me how baby is?”
“What! Polly, is that you? Come in, my poor child. All cold and wet with the dew! Why don’t you go home?”
“I dare not,” said Polly, bursting into tears; “mother forbade me till Johnny is found. Oh, tell me how baby is. Is he better? will he live?”—she could hardly speak through her sobs.
“Yes, he is better; that is to say, he is asleep.”