“Philip von Artevelde?”
“Yes. I can’t recollect them now, though they used to be always running in my head—something about time to mend and time to mourn.”
“These?” said Ethel—
“He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that.”
“I never had time before for either,” said Flora. “You cannot think how I used to be haunted by those, when I was chased from one thing to another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am in no haste to take up work again.”
“Mending as well as mourning,” said Ethel thoughtfully.
Flora sighed.
“And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to—” Ethel paused.
“She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was,” said Flora, “poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have very little time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must leave her to—to the nurses.” Flora’s voice trembled again.
“Our own dear old nurse,” said Ethel.