Miss Gregson was somewhat startled at the remark. She wondered wherein the likeness lay.
"Do you love your mother, Jemmy?" she asked, looking down upon the little pale face that rested amidst the white pillows.
"Yes, I love her well enough at times," he answered. "She kisses me at night when she's sober, but she's just awful when she drinks. Are you ever like that?"
"Like what, my dear?"
"Why, drunk of course. You've never given me any cuffs like mother when she's in the drink. I had to go to the hospital once because she hit me in the eye. Are you ever like that?"
The grave eyes looked earnestly up into the face bending over him, while an overwhelming pity took possession of Miss Gregson, for the little boy who evidently looked upon drinking mothers as an ordinary fact of life.
After assuring him that she was never the worse for drink, she tried to lead his thoughts into a happier groove before she left, and as she told him a story of a little boy who grew up to be a useful strong man, Jemmy's eyelids gradually closed in sleep.
Then Miss Gregson did what she felt was perhaps the surest way of helping the little lad—she knelt by his bed and prayed to the Good Shepherd.
Sheila was thankful when the last morning came, and the children were packed off to London with arms full of presents, cakes, and good things to take home. This part of the proceedings she really enjoyed. She had spent a great deal of time over the choice of these presents in the neighbouring town, the day before they left, and returned home in a state of excitement with the parcels at the bottom of the cart.
When the children had gone and Miss Gregson had said goodbye to Jemmy with tears in her eyes, Sheila stood at the window of the library looking out into the garden, playing with the cord of the blind, absently.