Mrs. Acheson roused herself to talk to the little girls, and was kindly anxious that Irene should not feel strange and unhappy. But Irene was not a child to respond quickly, and Mrs. Acheson could but contrast her with her own little Dorothy, who was so caressing and tender in her ways, and had a gentle voice, while Irene had a quick, decided way of speaking.
"Have you been unwell long, my dear?" Mrs. Acheson asked.
"I have had a cough, and—and father does not wish me to keep a cough, because of mother."
"You don't remember your mother?"
"No. I have a stepmother, you know, and two little brothers."
"You will like being with your grandmamma and your cousins at San Remo. Your grandmamma is such a dear old lady. Do you know, the thought of being near her reconciled me to spending the winter abroad."
Irene's face brightened at this.
"I am glad you know grannie," she said. "Your cough is very bad, I am afraid," Irene continued, as Mrs. Acheson was interrupted by a fit of coughing.
"Mother's cough is much better," Dorothy said, hotly. "Jingle says so, and she knows better than you do."
Irene made no reply to this, and soon after Ingleby came to put them both to bed.