“Oh, Renny, I despair at last! I fought it while I was strong; but now—now.”
Her head sunk and she pressed a hand to her bosom again.
“What ails you, dear? Zyp, are you ill?”
“I don’t know. Something seems to suck at my veins. I have nothing definite. The wretchedness of life is sapping my strength, I suppose.”
“Is it still so wretched? I am always here to give you what help I can.”
“Oh, I know! And we must always be cursing your quiet with our entreaties.”
“Zyp, you needn’t talk like that. My heart is open to my little sister. And is this my bonny niece?”
She was a slender mite of four or thereabouts, with a delicate thin face, oval like a blushing rose petal, and a quaint, solemn manner of movement and broken speech.
“Give me a kiss, mouse. Oh, what a prim little peck!”
A faint smile came to the mother’s lips. “You’ll learn to love your uncle, Renna.”