“NOW, Georgie, please,” Dulcibel said beseechingly, when her husband stood before her, dry-clothed once more, Joan vigorously kissing one of his hands. “Please tell me everything quickly. The dinner-bell will sound in a few minutes.”
“We may as well sit down meantime,” George said. “That will do, Joan; that’s enough. Hardly time to tell you everything now, I am afraid; but the gist of the matter is that I have found—”
“Joan’s mother!” cried Dulcibel.
“Somebody who may be her mother. A sick woman—a lady—has been lodging in a certain cottage for three weeks past, with a little child.”
“Joan, of course.”
“The child was there until yesterday—”
“Of course!” repeated Dulcibel.
“Not quite of course yet. The mother took the child away yesterday morning, and was absent some hours. When she came back she was alone, and so ill as to take to her bed. She had left the little one with friends.”
“And you believe that tale?”
“There seems no doubt about the fact of her illness. The cottager, a nice, sensible woman, spoke kindly of her, and with evident pity. She said the lady seemed poor, and in much trouble.”