“No, no; I think not,” said the captain. And, indeed, no sooner did he begin to unroll her than cries broke out, very sufficient answer as to the child’s being alive, and as her mother vehemently clasped her they grew more agonising.
“Let me see how much she is burnt,” said Mrs Carbonel. “You had better not squeeze her. It makes it worse.”
The child’s poor little neck and bosom proved to have been sadly burnt. Her mother had been heating the oven, and had gone out to fetch fresh faggots, when the little one, trying in baby-fashion to imitate the proceedings, had set her pinafore on fire. Many more children were thus destroyed than now, when they do not wear so much cotton, nor such long frocks and pinafores.
Poor little Hoglah screamed and moaned terribly, and the thought of her being unbaptised came with a shock across Mrs Carbonel. However, she did not think the injuries looked fatal, and speaking gently to soothe the mother, as she saw the preparations for baking, she said, “I think we can give her a little ease, my dear, my dear.”
Tirzah was sobbing, screaming, and calling on her dear child, quite helpless at the moment, while Mary took the moaning child. Captain Carbonel, with his own knife (finding it more effective than the blunt old knife on the table), cut off the remains of the little garments which had become tinder, and then handed his wife the flour in a sort of scoop, and as she sprinkled it over the burnt surface, the shrieks and moans abated and gradually died away, the child muttered, “Nice, nice,” and another word or two, which her mother understood as asking for something to drink. Beer, to Mary’s dismay, was the only thing at hand, but after a sup of that, the little thing’s black eyes closed, and she said something of “Mammy,” and “Bye, bye.” The great old cradle stood by, still used, though the child was three years old, and Mrs Carbonel laid her carefully in it.
“I think she will get well,” said she to the mother, “only you must not let the flour be disturbed on any account.” She had arranged handkerchiefs, her own, and a red one of Tirzah’s, to cover the dressing. “I will send you some milk, and don’t let the coverings be disturbed. Let her lie; only give her milk when she wants it, and I will come to see her to-morrow.”
Tirzah was sobbing quietly now, but she got out a choked question as to whether the child could get well.
“Oh yes; no fear of that, if you let the flour alone, as Mrs Carbonel tells you,” said the captain.
“Oh, oh! if it wasn’t for you—” the mother began.
But Edmund wanted to get his wife away before there was a scene, and cut it short with, “There, there! We’ll come again. Only let her alone, and don’t meddle with the flour.”