“If not, we must consider what to do with her,” said Lady Coningham. “I would give everything I possess to be able to carry her home with me; but”—she sighed a little—“that is out of the question.”
“You have children?” inquired Mrs. Graham, gently, attracted by the other’s sweet expression.
“No,” Lady Coningham answered, slowly. “I had one once, but—but it is gone.” She bent to kiss Mardie’s soft little cheek as she spoke, and again tears welled into her eyes.
“I am glad you have come,” said Mrs. Graham, after a pause, “for it would have gone to my heart to leave the child without some kind hand to minister to it occasionally. I must go North to-morrow; but I feel now that, should the worst happen and we find no clue, you will care for this poor little flower.”
“I will do all in my power for her,” returned the younger woman; “but do not let me keep you from your dinner—indeed, you must want it.”
Mrs. Graham rose and seated herself at the table. She felt weak and faint, but eating was almost an impossibility. Mardie, her food finished, put her hands together and whispered a grace, then wriggled down from her chair and went to the fire.
“She must go to bed,” said Mrs. Graham, rising again and ringing the bell; “she is growing tired now.”
The words were quickly verified, for the little head suddenly began to droop, and the beautiful eyes to grow misty and sleepy; but, as Lady Coningham, who had hurriedly removed her gloves, knelt and began to unbutton her frock, the little child pushed her away and looked round with a sudden quick feeling of fear and strangeness.
“Where’s Mardie’s mammie—where a mammie?” she murmured.
“Mammie is asleep,” said Mrs. Graham, soothingly, dreading a fit of terror.