Faith’s lip grieved.
“Cousin Mary isn’t you, mamma. I want to be kissed. You haven’t kissed me.”
Her mother hesitated for a moment; then kissed her once, twice; put both arms about her neck; and turned her face to the wall without a word.
“Mamma is tired, dear,” I said; “come away.”
She was lying quite still when I had done what was to be done for the child, and had come back. The room was nearly dark. I sat down on my cricket by her sofa.
“Shall Phœbe light the lamp?”
“Not just yet.”
“Can’t you drink a cup of tea if I bring it?”
“Not just yet.”
“Did you find the sack-trimming?” I ventured, after a pause.