That is how they reached the cottage.
The children were in bed, and poor Bunty, weary [258] ]of waiting, had fallen asleep sitting bolt upright in a chair.
Pip woke him, gently enough.
“Make up the fire,” he said.
The boy fell to the task with all his heart, so dreadful was his sister’s face. The clatter woke Poppet; she slipped out of bed and came in to them in her little nightgown, her eyes heavy with sleep and the struggle between forgetfulness and remembrance.
“Baby!” she said. Then her eyes flew open, and the colour died out of her little flushed cheeks. What made Nellie look so terrible?
“Better, much better—getting well,” was Pip’s hasty answer. He did not want another ill on his hands.
The child gasped with relief.
“Go and get something on,” said Pip; “and bring Nell a big shawl or rug, and put something on your feet.”
She came back with a great blanket for Nellie—she had pinned her little flannel petticoat round her own shoulders, and stuck her feet into goloshes.