I could not help lifting my eyes from time to time, just for a look. Maimie asleep was even more lovely than Maimie awake. The parted lips had such a sweet sad curve.
Robert would not have her disturbed. He was not generally caressing in manner, but Maimie had won upon him from the first moment. I wondered if Cherry would feel jealous. But no,—Cherry was knitting away with a bright face, glancing often from Maimie to Jack with looks of positive delight. Jack simply sat and watched Maimie, in his favourite attitude, propping his chin on the palms of his hands, and seeming oblivious of everything else. Cresswell made scant advance with his lessons that night; and even steady Owen worked with but fitful attention.
It must have been at least an hour before Maimie awoke. When she did, I saw a tremulous start, and her eyes wandered round in bewilderment. “Mother!” burst from her lips, and then there was a mournful,—“Oh, I forgot;” and a deep sigh.
Jack could not stand it. He sprang up, and came a step or two nearer, saying quite pitifully,—“Don’t, Maimie,—please don’t, Maimie.”
My husband put his arm round Maimie afresh; and Cherry left her work to comfort the girl. But I could say and do nothing. I felt as if I stood alone,—outside the circle interested in Maimie. It was the first time I had ever known the sense of separation between me and mine. And there is no separation like heart-separation.
“Maimie is tired out now. She will feel better in the morning,” Cherry said cheerfully.
“Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! Oh, I do wish I hadn’t come!” I could hear Maimie murmur in smothered tones.
“You mustn’t wish that, Maimie, because we are all so glad to have you,” said Jack. “We’ll do our very best to make you happy.”
“Maimie, I shall take you to see St. Paul’s and the Tower, and all sorts of London sights,” put in Cress, as his offered share of consolation.
“Not Westminster Abbey. You’ll leave that to me,” Jack said, with a touch of unwonted sharpness. “And the Houses of Parliament, and—”