“Good-night, Bunty,” she said in a small voice with a pitiful hiccough at the end.
“Oh, good-night,” he said.
And then Meg carried her off.
Such a tender, gentle, soothing Meg she was, even though some one was waiting impatiently in the drawing-room and the evening was almost over.
She took the child into her own room, and put her into her own bed with the pink rosebud hangings and pale pink mosquito nets that Poppet had always thought the prettiest things in the world.
And she bathed her face with lavender-water, and sprinkled the same refreshing stuff on the white, frilled pillows, and talked to her in a pleasant, matter-of-fact way that dispelled the horrors of the night entirely.
The little girl told her dream. She longed to pour all Bunty’s troubles into this dear, big sister’s ear! But that of course was forbidden.
One thing she did venture to say, as she lay cuddled up with her face luxuriously against Meg’s soft breast.
“Dear Megsie, couldn’t you be sweet and dear to Bunty too? Poor Bunty, everybody gets on to him.”
[62]
]“My pet, he won’t let people be nice to him,” said Meg in a troubled way.