“Very,” said Mrs. Kayll, resting one hand on her husband’s shoulder, and thoughtfully looking at the child. “Dear, dear, how time flies! It must be eight years since we saw her last. Boys, you’ve heard of your father’s cousin Amy. This is her little girl.”
“And where have you dropped from?” Mr. Kayll asked next. “What brings you to us alone at nearly nine o’clock at night?”
“Mother was afraid I shouldn’t find you at home if I came earlier,” said the child, nervously twisting her hands together, and letting her large blue eyes wander from one to another of the wondering faces around her, for Madge and Jem were staring at her without disguise, and Bob and Jack stole furtive glances every now and again.
“And how is mother?” Mr. Kayll asked, beginning to have some suspicion as to the meaning of this visit. “I haven’t even heard from her for years and years.”
“She’s not very well. She never is very well,” was the shy answer. “She always has such a bad cough.”
“And father?”
“Father died a long time ago,” she said simply, with a downward glance at her shabby and ragged black frock.
“Dead! Dear me! Tut, tut, tut!” said Mr. Kayll, very much shocked. “Poor child! Poor little woman! that’s very sad. Dear me!” he repeated, while his wife looked at the wan little figure until the tears came into her eyes. As for Madge, not being able to show her sympathy in any other way, she sat down and drew her little cousin on to her knee.
“Mother sent me,” said Amy Coleson from that perch as she gathered more courage, “to ask you if you would lend us a little money, because we are so dreadfully poor, and—and baby’s so ill;” here her voice trembled, but she recovered herself directly and went on, “and we can’t get her anything she ought to have.”
Mr. Kayll looked grave.