And of course it is impossible to go back, the journey once begun. Though why he had undertaken the charge of this child except to please her he hardly knows. And in all probability the cure will never be effected. And then she will go even further, and regret having given him that insulting kiss—of gratitude. And what on earth is he to do with this child—this burden?
Here he looks round at the little burden. Bonnie is asleep. All the tears and excitement have overcome him, and he is lying back in a deep slumber, and in a most uncomfortable position.
Crosby bends over him, and tenderly, very tenderly, lifts the small delicate, flower-like head from its uneasy resting-place against the side of the carriage, and lays it softly on his arm. And thus he supports it for the rest of the drive, until, Dublin being reached, he gives him into the care of a trained nurse procured from the Rotunda, who is to accompany the child abroad.
CHAPTER L.
‘How goodness heightens beauty!’
‘Oh, what a Christmas Day!’ cries Betty, springing out of bed and rushing to the window.
‘You will catch your death of cold,’ says Susan sleepily; but in spite of this protest, or, rather, in despite of it, she, too, jumps out of her cosy nest and hurries to the window. ‘Oh, what a morning!’ breathes she.
And, indeed, the world seems all afire to-day. The sun is glittering upon the snow, and the snow is casting back at it lights scarcely less brilliant. All the trees and shrubs are gaily decked with snowy wraps and armlets, whilst here and there, through the universal white, big branches of holly-berries, scarlet as blood, peep out.
‘Ouf! Yes; but it’s cold,’ says Betty, after a moment or two.
‘I told you you would catch cold,’ says Susan, turning upon her indignantly, though in reality she stands quite as big a chance of meeting the dread foe as Betty.