“Something that somebody said.”
“Has any one been speaking unkindly to my little one?”
“No, no. They did not mean to be unkind. Oh dear no! nothing of the sort. But—things sting—when people do not mean it.”
The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood the explanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this she understood and felt full sympathy with—that her one cherished darling was in trouble.
“Who was it, Magot?”
“Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. And nobody intended to hurt me.”
“What did she say?”
“She said,”—something like a sob came here—“that I was one who could settle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lost love. But, she said, it would kill her in a month.”
“Well, darling? I began to hope that was true.”
“No,” came in a very low voice. It was not a quick, warm denial like that of Eva, yet one which sounded far more hopelessly conclusive. “No. O Mother, no!”