Grace sanctioned this, feeling that there was wisdom in Ellen’s suggested preparation, though she hoped, as Polly did, that the mother might not come.
This wish was doomed to be set aside unfulfilled.
That same night, very late, a cab drove up to the door, and Valentine almost lifted out a fragile woman’s figure.
“She is quite exhausted,” he whispered in Grace’s ear.
Grace put her arms about Mrs. Pennington, and led her into the nearest room, while Valentine followed, looking strangely white and worn.
“I fear I am not a good emissary,” he said, sorrowfully, to his sister; “but when she pleaded to be allowed to come to her boy, it was impossible to refuse her. Shall I go and tell Miss Pennington?”
Grace merely nodded her head. She had all her work cut out, she saw at a glance, to minister to this poor, broken-hearted mother, whose haggard eyes and frail look brought the tears in a hot flood to her own eyes.
She had Ellen at hand to help her, and the two women vied with each other in doing all their hearts could suggest to give some strength to the overtaxed frame.
The journey from town, the cold and the aching anxiety had reduced poor Mrs. Pennington to an almost fainting condition, and though her eyes looked pleadingly into Grace’s face, she was forced by her weakness to rest before going upstairs.
Valentine stood a moment watching her, then turned and went to find Polly.