“No.”
“Say that you’ll take me all the same. Oh! do take me; it will be such a pleasure!”
But Hélène had at last found her shawl, and she threw it over her shoulders. Good heavens! only twelve minutes left—just time to run. She would go—she would do something, no matter what. She would decide on the way.
“Mamma dear, do please take me with you,” said Jeanne in tones that grew lower and more imploring.
“I cannot take you,” said Hélène; “I’m going to a place where children don’t go. Give me my bonnet.”
Jeanne’s face blanched. Her eyes grew dim, her words came with a gasp. “Where are you going?” she asked.
The mother made no reply—she was tying the strings of her bonnet.
Then the child continued: “You always go out without me now. You went out yesterday, you went out to-day, and you are going out again. Oh, I’m dreadfully grieved, I’m afraid to be here all alone. I shall die if you leave me here. Do you hear, mother darling? I shall die.”
Then bursting into loud sobs, overwhelmed by a fit of grief and rage, she clung fast to Hélène’s skirts.
“Come, come, leave me; be good, I’m coming back,” her mother repeated.