"Comfort her! I am in need of comfort myself. Yes, I will come. No one wants me—no one cares!"
"I care, madam," Brian said. "Is the gentleman dead? It is said in the town that he is dead of his wound."
"No, no, he is alive, but dying," said Griselda. "Take me to poor little Norah—my poor little sister! And then will you go for me to North Parade—see, Graves, the good waiting-woman—and ask her to bring me my possessions, for I shall never return thither; I am homeless and helpless."
"No, madam—no," the boy said; "my aunts will receive you—I feel sure they will."
Then they walked on silently towards John Street, and there the Miss Hoblyns were awaiting her arrival. They had not reached the pinnacle of their fame at this time, for it was not till the Duchess of York, in 1795, visited their establishment that they became the rage. But they were kind-hearted women, of a superior type to the ordinary class of mantua-maker and milliner of those times. Gentlewomen by nature, if not by birth.
Brian, the son of their dead sister, was their idol, and they found it hard to refuse any request he made. When the poor desolate child had been led to their home from her father's grave, their hearts had gone out to her, and they gave Brian leave to fetch the sister of whom he spoke.
Great, indeed, was these good women's surprise, when, as Griselda dropped her hood and cloak, they recognised the beautiful young lady, on whom they had waited at Lady Betty Longueville's, and who had done such credit to their skill in altering the white paduasoy which Lady Betty had discarded, and which Griselda wore when she had been the admired belle of the great ball in Wiltshire's Rooms. How was it possible she could be the sister of the orphan child, and the daughter of an actor, who had died sunk in the depths of misery and poverty?
But they asked no questions, and, taking poor Griselda's hand, led her to the room where, on a couch drawn near the fire, the child lay, asleep.
Worn out with watching and sorrow, this sufferer for the sins of another had fallen into a profound slumber, and Griselda, as she looked on the pale face, about which a tangle of golden curls lay in wild confusion, stooped and kissed her sister.
The child stirred—as she did so, opened her eyes for a moment, smiled, and said: