"I tell you what, Susan, I'd advise you, as a friend, to mind your own business. If you are such a blind bat as not to see what Miss Dorothy is—well, I am sorry for you, and I can't help it."
"I did not mean any offence, I am sure," said Susan, as she left the nursery. "As I said, it's not the child's fault; but it would be hard lines for her if she lost her mamma, and you too, Mrs. Ingleby."
A few minutes later, Ingleby was startled by the appearance of a little white figure in the doorway.
"Jingle," she said, in a low, choking voice, "is—my—mamma so very ill? I want to know."
"Ill? why, no. She has got a cough which shakes her rather. But, bless your little heart—don't, Miss Dorothy, my sweet, don't."
For, in a passion of weeping, Dorothy had thrown herself into her nurse's arms.
"Am I such a spoiled child?—am I, Jingle?"
"You are a dear little creature; nothing could spoil you. There, there; let me put you back to bed. Don't cry."
But Dorothy did cry, and when Ingleby had left her at last, she buried her face in the pillow, saying over to herself—
"Oh, is my mamma so ill? Will she die? Will she die? And I am such a spoiled child. Oh dear, oh dear! I never thought of it before—never, never."