“What is Miss Hamblyn like? Is she pretty? And is she a Canadian?”
“I don’t suppose anyone would call Nell really pretty; although to us she is beautiful. But she has a sweet low voice, and her eyes are soft and dark like those of a deer. She was born on the American side, and her father was a preacher; but she never says anything about her life from the time her father died when she was eleven. I think it must have been too sad to talk about.”
“Poor girl!” murmured Mrs. Bronson, softly; and the absorbed look on her face deepened until it became abstraction.
But she roused herself presently, and inquired what was the next thing to be done.
“We don’t do anything at night after the customers are gone, only just rest ourselves. Would you like to put a shawl on and come out in the garden? The moon will be rising very soon, and it is very pleasant out there; but you will need to wrap up, because this place is hot and stuffy.”
“It is warm, certainly. But where are Flossie and the little ones? I haven’t heard anything of them for a long time.”
“Flossie has put the little boys to bed by this time, and I expect she is lying in the hammock under the cedar; at least, I hope she is, for she gets so tired, poor little girl,” Gertrude answered, with a quaver of true motherly feeling in her voice.
“What is the matter with her—hip disease?” asked Mrs. Bronson, as she slowly untied her apron and prepared to fold it up.
“Yes. Dr. Shaw, of Nine Springs, used to say he thought she might outgrow it; but Dr. Russell, who lives at Bratley, thinks she ought to be treated for it now—have specially made instruments and all that sort of thing. But he is poor and we are poor, so it is not to be thought of,” ended Gertrude, with a sigh; and again there was the yearning note in her voice.
“Have you thought of a hospital for her?” asked Mrs. Bronson.