"She is not a beggar, and yet she is not a lady exactly, and yet she is," said the puzzled Patty. "She is very respectable, ma'am; she said her name was—was—I declare ma'am, I am shocking at names."
"Well—send her off, any way," said Mrs. Howe; "tell her I am out."
"But I have told her you was in, ma'am, not knowing as you might want to see her."
"You never should do that, Patty, you should always say that you will see if I am in; that gives me a chance, you see. Go tell her then, that I am engaged."
"Please ma'am," said Patty, returning after a few minutes, "she says her name is 'Mrs. Bond,' and wants to know if she can see the young woman, and the sick baby; shall I show her up there?"
"Yes—yes—don't bother—I never shall get off to Madame Du Pont's."
One—two—three—four—five pair of back stairs, dark as only city back stairs can be. Poor old Mrs. Bond stumbled and panted, panted and stumbled breathlessly up toward the attic.
Patty threw open the door of the cook's room which Mrs. Howe, out of her abundance, had benevolently appropriated to the use of the sick child. The floor was uncarpeted, the window was without a blind, and the fat cook's ample petticoat had been pinned up by Mrs. Howe, not out of kindness to the sick child, but to keep out the eyes of prying neighbors.
Rose sat on the only seat in the room, a low cricket, swaying to and fro with Charley in her lap, vainly trying to hush his moanings; her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her face was even whiter than Charley's, for through the long weary hours, she had paced the floor with him, or sat on the cricket, lulling him as best she could, watching every change of expression in his little wan face.
At sight of Mrs. Bond, her pent up heart found vent, and laying her head upon her shoulder she sobbed aloud.