"There is no dog here. Close your eyes, Flo; try to sleep."
Flo obeyed, and slept uneasily for about half an hour. During this sleep, Mrs. Eyre whispered to the nurse, "Mrs. Dooner, I must just run down and see what has become of the other children."
Mrs. Dooner did not know that they had gone away, and the doctor did not hear what was said. Mrs. Eyre left the room.
Poor Hetty, half stupefied with grief and terror, heard her step, and knew it. The child had ceased to cry. What had happened? She could not face her kind mistress. She could not bear to hear her say "Go," as her master had done. She could not bear to hear that the child was dead. She started up, crept out of the room, and ran out of the house.
She went to the railway station, and was told that there would not be another train until seven o'clock—a slow train, the ticket clerk told her, but she could not understand him, she was so dazed. There was a seat close by, and she crawled over to it, and sat there until the train ran in. Then she took her ticket, and got into a third-class carriage.
The door was opened just as the train was starting, and a woman got in. At the same moment something white made its appearance. Zelica sprang into Hetty's lap.
"Is the cat yours?" inquired the porter.
"Oh, Zelica, Zelica!" cried Hetty. "You don't know what we've done."
The man looked at the woman who had just got in, and said, "I hope the girl's in her right mind."
The woman half rose, but sat down again, saying, "I'm only going to the next station, and she's but a slip of a girl." And as Hetty sat quite quiet, she was soon satisfied that there was no danger.