Betty trotted along, following her guide across the hall to another room, where on a couch near the window lay a lady.
'I've brought a little visitor to see you, Grace,' Nesta said in cheery tones. 'This is the little girl I was telling you about the other day.'
'I can't bear children,' was the fretful reply; 'why do you bring her here?'
But nevertheless she put the book down that she was reading, and scanned the child from head to foot. Betty's grave face and earnest scrutiny in return seemed to vex her more.
'How children stare! Do you think me a scarecrow, child? can't you keep your eyes to yourself? What is your name?'
'Betty,' and the little girl drew to her friend's side rather shyly.
'Go and shake hands,' whispered Nesta.
Betty went up to the couch and held out her little hand. The invalid took it, and the fair, flushed little face seemed to attract her.
'This is a perfect baby, Nesta; I thought you meant a much older child. Well, little girl, haven't you a tongue in your head? Have you nothing to say? It's the way of this house: here I lie from morning to night without a soul to speak to, and if I do have a visitor it is half a dozen words, and then off they go! I should like them to lie here and suffer as I do—perhaps they might have a little more feeling for an invalid if they did.'
'Are you going to die?' asked Betty timidly.