Mavis told her, adding that she did not know her aunt and cousins, and that she would miss her mother dreadfully. Her brown eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
"Poor little thing!" murmured Miss Dawson, in a tone of such deep sympathy, that the tears overflowed and ran down her companion's cheeks. "I have no doubt you begrudge your mother to me," she continued, after a brief pause, "but please do try not to. I really am ill, you know, though I like to pretend I'm not sometimes, and—by the way, you have not told me your name?"
"It is Mavis."
"Mavis?"
"Yes. My father chose it for me. A mavis is a thrush—a bird which sings."
"And do you sing?" Miss Dawson inquired, with a smile.
"Yes," Mavis replied, drying her eyes and smiling too. "I used to sing when I was quite a little girl."
Miss Dawson laughed; but the laugh brought on a fit of coughing which lasted several minutes. When it had passed, she seemed quite exhausted, and lay back on the sofa with her eyes shut, panting. Mavis was rather frightened, and wished her mother would return, but presently Miss Dawson opened her eyes and smiled at her, remarking apologetically—
"I hope I have not alarmed you; this wretched cough takes all my strength away. There, I'm all right again. I wish you would sing to me."
"Do you mean now?" Mavis inquired, dubiously.