“You have?” asked the woman.
“Yes; because Uncle Jonathan gave mamma a home once, when she was a little girl; and she said he would me, if she sent me.”
“And who are you? and who’s your mamma?”
“I’m Inna; and mamma is Uncle Jonathan’s niece.”
“You aren’t Miss Mercy’s daughter?” said the woman.
“Yes, I’m Miss Mercy’s daughter; and now, [p26] please, may I sit down?” asked the little tired voice.
“Yes, poor little unwelcome lamb; I’ll not be the one to deny that to Miss Mercy’s daughter. Come here;” and she set her own cushioned rocking-chair forward on the hearth. “But where is Miss Mercy? and why did she send you here?”
“Mamma is gone abroad with papa. Some people are afraid he’s dying; and”—Inna’s heart was full—“I’ve a letter in my pocket for Uncle Jonathan, to tell him all about it.”
“Well, well, this will be news for master—unwelcome news, I’m thinking,” muttered the woman as to herself, but speaking aloud.
“Do you mean I shan’t be welcome?” asked a strained little voice from the rocking-chair.