"You can write in my study," he said; "you will be undisturbed, for I shall be out. If it's fine I always go for a walk in the afternoon."
Mr. Basset's study was a large room, with a round table in the centre on which stood his microscope. The walls were lined with shelves—some filled with books, others with jars and bottles—and cabinets holding many treasured possessions. In front of the window, which looked into a fruit garden, was a writing-table, which Mr. Basset told his niece she was at liberty to use.
Josephine commenced her letter, but before she had been writing long she began to feel the atmosphere very oppressive. There was a big fire in the grate, and the weather was mild for the time of the year. Rising, she opened the low French window to let in some air, and, as she did so, she heard a voice in the garden say—
"Oh, cook, it's pitiful! I feel like crying only thinking about it! Poor little fatherless lamb!"
Josephine stepped through the open window and looked for the speaker, who proved to be the parlour-maid. The girl had been speaking to the cook through the front kitchen window which faced the fruit garden. Her eyes—very kind eyes they were—were full of tears.
"What is the matter?" Josephine asked.
"There's nothing the matter, miss," Jane replied; "cook and I've only been talking of the Belgians."
"Was it a Belgian you called a poor little fatherless lamb?"
Jane nodded.
"There was a Belgian baby born at Midbury last night," she explained; "the mother's a widow—her husband's been killed in the war."