“Did—did she seem sorry?”
“I’m afraid so, a little sorry and a little vexed too; but she will not think about it long.”
Winifred was very silent on the way home. She seemed still thinking very much, but thinking did not make her face look brighter.
As they drove through the gates of the lodge, she saw a pale little face looking out of the lattice-window, and her mother leaned out to ask of the woman who opened the gate:
“How is little Phil to-day?”
“Much the same, thank you, ma’am.”
“I will send him some more jelly soon.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
As Winifred climbed the stairs to her nursery her face was graver than ever.
“Why, I’ve never finished those mittens I promised little Phil months and months ago. And I haven’t been to see him for ever so long. I don’t believe even he will miss me when I go away, and he used so to watch for me to come, and be so pleased. Oh dear, dear, he must go on to the list of people now who are to have things given them—or something. But I can’t think whatever I can do to make them sorry when I go.”