“No, O, no,—not that—I’ve lost—” but sobs drowned the words.
“Have your cry out, dear, and then tell me about it.” Miss Ruth led Elsa into the library, drew a chair in front of the fireplace where the coals were yet glowing brightly, unfastened the heavy fur cape and took the slender little white-gowned figure into her arms.
The comfort of being told to cry all she wanted to, and of having kind arms around her soon quieted Elsa’s sobs.
With only a little break in her voice, now and then, she told the story of her loss, feeling, with a child’s sure intuition, that Miss Ruth understood. “It is—so hard,” she said with a final sigh, hiding her face against the friendly shoulder; “I have had Bettina ever since nurse went away.”
“I know it is hard, dear,” Miss Ruth softly stroked the yellow hair. “What shall we do?”
That “we” was so comforting.
“I—I s’pose I must get along without her,” said Elsa, sitting upright. The quivering lips and tear-dimmed violet-gray eyes told the grief in her heart, but her bravery was conquering now.
“How old are you, Elsa?” asked Miss Ruth.
“Almost twelve.”
Miss Ruth wisely waited.