“Poor dear woman!” exclaimed Margaret.
“Perhaps you would hardly care to go into that room!”
“Oh! I should like it! I want to see the dear boy again! I have brought some flowers to put over him!”
“Then, what name shall I tell her ladyship?”
“Mrs. Pullen, say Margaret Pullen whose little baby died at Heyst—then I think she will remember!”
“Will you take a seat, Mrs. Pullen, whilst I go upstairs and see if I can persuade her to receive you?”
Margaret sat down, and Miss Wynward went up to the chamber which had once been Bobby’s. On the bed was stretched the body of the dead boy, whilst opposite to it lay on a couch a woman with dry eyes, but palsied limbs, staring, staring without intermission at the silent figure which had once contained the spirit of her son. She did not turn her head as Miss Wynward entered the room.
“My lady,” she said, going up to her, “Mrs. Pullen is downstairs and would like to see you! She told me to say that she is Margaret Pullen whose baby died in Heyst last summer, and she knew Bobby and has brought some flowers to strew over his bed. May she came up?”
But she received no answer. Madame Gobelli’s features were working, but that was the only sign of life which she gave.
“Mrs. Pullen is so very sorry for your loss,” Miss Wynward went on, “she cried when she spoke of it, and as she has suffered the same, I am sure she will sympathise with you. May I say that you will see her?”