But Mabin, having recovered her spirits, if not her walking powers, wanted to talk to the new friend she had so unexpectedly made.
“You are very good to me,” she said. “I have never had so much kindness from any one since my mother died. It was so strange; when I woke up just now I felt what I thought was my mother’s touch again. And yet I had forgotten all about that. For she has been dead fifteen years.”
“Poor child!” said Mrs. Dale. “I am glad of that, dear, that I reminded you of her,” she whispered gently.
“Of course I don’t mean that,” went on Mabin quickly, trying to sit up. “I don’t mean that you could be a mother to me now, as I am. That does sound ridiculous! You couldn’t be my mother when you are the same age as myself.”
As a matter of fact, Mabin looked older than her companion. But when the conversation thus turned to herself, Mrs. Dale’s pink face grew suddenly pale, and Mabin looked at her shyly, and flushed, feeling that she had said something wrong. But almost before she was conscious that she had touched some sensitive spot, Mrs. Dale said softly:
“Go on talking, dear, about your mother, or—or anything. I am lonely, you know; very lonely. And it is a treat to hear you talk.”
The girl flushed again, this time with surprise.
“You like to hear me talk! Ah, then you must be lonely indeed. For they say at home I never talk without saying the very last thing I ought to say.”
As she came to the end of her speech, Mabin found that her words insensibly began to run the one into the other, and that her voice died away. And, greatly to her own astonishment, she found her head falling heavily upon that of her new friend.
“Ah, child, it is selfish of me to make you talk!” cried Mrs. Dale. “You are faint, and must rest now. Come and talk to me some other time.”