Then, nothing more of interest to be seen, she left the window, and going to a chest-of-drawers began turning over the contents with evident enjoyment. She took out frock after frock, some of silk, others woollen, and surveyed them one by one with critical eyes. She smoothed ribbons, she pulled out laces, she folded and refolded; and then seated on the floor drew a glove-case towards her and began trying on her stock of gloves. It was wonderful the interest the child took in her fine clothes; it was evident she was accustomed to give them much consideration.
Whilst she was thus employed the door was softly opened and a hospital nurse peeped in; then without a word shut the door again and went downstairs. She was a gentle-faced woman, known as "Sister Ellen" in the sick-room. Her kind face was thoughtful and sad as she turned into the house-keeper's room. Mrs. Mudford, the house-keeper, was seated by the fire. She rose as the nurse entered and drew an easy-chair forward.
"There, my dear," she said kindly, "rest yourself a bit; you must be nearly fit to drop. We'll have a cup of tea together, and that will refresh you, will it not?"
"Oh, yes! I should like that better than anything. Mrs. Knight is a trifle easier now, and her brother-in-law is with her. I have left them alone by her desire; she has something of importance to say to him."
"What does he think of her? He is a doctor, is he not?"
"Yes. He says the same as the others. She will not be alive in twenty-four hours. Poor woman!"
The house-keeper busied herself with the tea-things, and whilst the nurse sipped the refreshing beverage they discussed the patient in low tones.
All her life Mrs. Knight had lived for herself alone. Neither husband nor child had been so dear to her as herself. She was one of those whose portion, as the psalmist says, was in this life, and it could not be expected that she would be much regretted by her acquaintances, much less by her servants, whom she had never considered in the least. Sister Ellen, who had nursed all sorts and conditions of sick people, acknowledged to herself that she had never had to do with one so utterly selfish as the woman who lay dying upstairs.