"I love him," said Janey, faithfully; "I think he is nice all the time."
"It wasn't much of a story, that is true," said Bertha. "There was not enough of it."
"He died too soon," said Jack.
"Yes," said Bertha; "he died too soon, that was it,—too soon." And the laugh she ended with had a sound which made her shudder.
She got up from her rocking-chair quickly.
"We won't tell stories," she said. "We will play. We will play ball and blind-man's bluff—and run about and get warm. That will be better."
And she took out her handkerchief and tied it over her eyes with unsteady hands, laughing again,—laughing while the children laughed, too.
They played until the room rang with their merriment. They had not been so gay together for many a day, and when the game was at an end they tried another and another, until they were tired and ready for their nursery dinner. Bertha did not leave them even then. She did not expect Richard home until their own dinner-hour in the evening, so she sat at the children's table and helped them herself, in the nurse's place; and they were in high spirits, and loquacious and confidential.
When the meal was over they sat by the nursery fire, and Meg fell asleep in her mother's arms; and after she had laid her on her bed Bertha came back to Jack and Janey, and read and talked to them until dusk began to close in about them. It was as they sat so together that a sealed package was brought to her by a servant, who said it had been left at the door by a messenger. It contained two letters,—one addressed to Senator Blundel, and one to herself,—and both were in Richard's hand.
"I suppose something has detained him, and I am not to wait dinner," she thought, as she opened the envelope bearing her own name.