"Now I am going to take you downstairs.'
"To see mother," I said in a whisper.
"Yes," said she; "unless you would rather not."
"I don't know. I think I ought," I said; but I felt shaky.
"I think so, too," says she. "It may do your mother good. And, Kitty," says she, "you've got to put yourself out of sight, and try to be brave. Don't mind if she turns from you at first. Just walk into the kitchen quite naturally, and speak to her exactly as usual."
I promised to try; but as we went downstairs I clung tight to her, frightened to think what was coming. I'm not sure that Mary didn't feel a sort of fear too, she looked so pale.
"Now, Kitty," she whispers, outside the kitchen, "don't you mind anything, but go straight up to her, and be like your own self."
Easier said than done; but I did my best. I opened the door, and went to the table, where mother was ironing, though I felt as if my legs wouldn't carry me there.
"Mother!" I said.
She looked up at me, and down again. Her face had the sort of fixed look I'd seen the first night; and her black dress and widow's cap made her so strange.