[78]
]“Mama!” cried Dolly, catching at her hands, “oh, what is it, mama?”
“This room!” moaned the mother. “Oh, how could you come here?”
She began to work at another heap—her trembling hands seized the top book—Martin Chuzzlewit it was. A paper-knife was stuck into the pages enshrining Augustus Moddle’s proposal to Charity Pecksniff.
Not three months ago she had brought a smile to her husband’s face by reading it to him one sleepless night. The memory was too much for her, she dropped the volume and sank into a chair, her heart breaking afresh.
Phyl and Dolly rushed to her, knelt by her side, clasped her, kissed her a thousand times, called her by tender names. When she saw their passionate grief she calmed herself with a strong effort and sat up again.
“There,” she said, with woful eyes, “there, my dear ones: hush, Phyl; hush, hush, Dolly—I might have known my darlings did not mean to be unkind,—they forgot where they were playing, didn’t they?”
Phyl’s very breath seemed to go.
“Playing?” she echoed in a strange voice.
“Oh!” cried Dolly, her sobs breaking forth afresh; “did you weally think we were playing, mama?”
“Why,” faltered the mother, glancing round, [79] ]“what were you doing then? Tidying the book-shelves? Tell me, darlings.”