“I am not afraid of you,” said the child, drawing nearer. “But I want to know what they have done with my Mama.”
Her heart swelled so as she stood before the woman, looking into her eyes, that she was fain to press her little hand upon her breast and hold it there. Yet there was a purpose in the child that prevented both her slender figure and her searching gaze from faltering.
“My darling,” said Richards, “you wear that pretty black frock in remembrance of your Mama.”
“I can remember my Mama,” returned the child, with tears springing to her eyes, “in any frock.”
“But people put on black, to remember people when they’re gone.”
“Where gone?” asked the child.
“Come and sit down by me,” said Richards, “and I’ll tell you a story.”
With a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she had asked, little Florence laid aside the bonnet she had held in her hand until now, and sat down on a stool at the Nurse’s feet, looking up into her face.
“Once upon a time,” said Richards, “there was a lady—a very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved her.”
“A very good lady and her little daughter dearly loved her,” repeated the child.