It was not many days before Marigold was well enough to think how wonderful it was that her mother was there helping Aunt Pamela to nurse her. She watched the two figures that were constantly at her bedside, with puzzled eyes. It was happiness indeed to have her mother with her, such happiness that sometimes she could scarcely realise it; and she often grasped Mrs. Holcroft's hand tightly in her weak fingers, to assure herself the dear presence was real, and not a dream.
Soon came the time when she began to ask questions.
"Aunt Pamela," she said one day, "it was you who sent for mother, was it not?"
"Yes, my dear. Don't you remember that first night I sat up with you I promised to do so next day?"
"Yes. It all seems so unreal. How could mother leave the boys, I wonder?"
"Oh, that was easily managed. She arranged with a neighbour to take them in, and board them till she returns. At first, when you began to get better, she thought of taking you back to London with her, but Dr. Nowell thinks that is not advisable. He says you must not live in London, at any rate till the winter is past, so you will have to remain with your old aunts a little longer, Marigold."
"Is mother going to have me to live with her again soon then, Aunt Pamela?"
"Yes, child."
Marigold was silent after that, thinking deeply. Of course she wanted to return to her mother and brothers, her heart beat joyfully at the thought; but she could not help feeling sorrowful at the idea of leaving Exeter.
"Mother," she whispered lovingly, when she was next alone with Mrs. Holcroft, "dear mother, it made me so happy to think of your having had that two hundred pounds a year left to you."