She seemed to shrink back into herself a little at these words; however, she said—
“You have been very good to the child. It was best for her to go.”
“Yes, I think it was. Don’t you find that the mist from the marsh makes your room very cold this weather, Mrs. Rayner?”
She looked at me in a frightened irresolute way, and then she formed with her lips rather than spoke the words—
“Yes—rather cold—now.”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in one of the rooms upstairs while the fogs last?” I insinuated shyly.
But I saw that her breath was beginning to come fast, and the faint pink to tinge her cheek as it did when she was excited.
“Did any one tell you to say that to me?” she asked, in a whisper.
“I told Mr. Rayner, when I wrote, that we had a slight fog here on Tuesday night, and this morning I had a letter saying that he thought it was bad for you to sleep on the ground-floor when the mists had begun to rise high, and that he had told Sarah to prepare the large front spare-room for you.”
Instead of looking grateful for this proof of her husband’s thoughtfulness, she became agitated, and at last her agitation grew almost uncontrollable; she trembled and clung to the bars inside the window, and I saw that her forehead was wet with the effect of some strong emotion—it looked like fear.