“What made you ask the question?” said Mrs. Breynton, when the laugh had subsided.
“Oh, I was only thinking, I guessed Peace Maythorne’s name was made in heaven. It so exactly suits her.”
After that, the cripple’s little quiet room became one of the places Gypsy loved best in Yorkbury.
Two or three weeks after that Mrs. Littlejohn, who had been gaining rapidly in strength and good temper under Mrs. Breynton’s wise and kindly care, took it into her head one morning, when she was alone, to walk across the room, and look out of the window. The weakened limb was not in a fit state to be used at all, and the shock given to it was very great. Inflammation set in, and fever, and the doctor shook his head, and asked if the old woman had any friends living anywhere; if so, they had better be sent for. But the poor creature seemed to be desolate enough; declared she had no relatives, and was glad of it; she only wanted to be let alone, and she should get well fast enough.
She never said that when Mrs. Breynton was in the room. Gypsy went down one evening with her mother, to help her carry a bundle of fresh bed-clothing, and she was astonished at the gentleness which had crept into the old withered face and peevish voice. Mrs. Littlejohn called her up to the bed, just as she started to go.
“I say, little gal, I told ye a fib the day ye fust come. I did have a dinner, though it war a terrible measly one—Mrs. Breynton, marm!”
Mrs. Breynton stepped up to her.
“What was that ye read t’other day, ’bout liars not goin’clock into the kingdom of heaven?—I ’most forgot.”
Gypsy crept out, softly. She was wondering how her mother had managed her charity to this fretful old woman so wisely, that her words, unfitly spoken, were becoming a trouble to herself, and her hours of increasing pain turned into hours of late, faint repentance. Perhaps the charm lay in a certain old book, dog-eared and worn, and dusty from long disuse on the cupboard shelf. This little book Mrs. Breynton had found, and she had read in it many times, until that painful groaning ceased.
And so one night it chanced that the old yellow cat sat blinking at the light, and the yellow, furrowed face turned over on the pillow and smiled, and lay still. The light burned out, and the morning came; the cat jumped purring upon the bed, and seeing what was there, curled up by it, with a mournful mewing cry.