Becky was not well skilled in reasoning. She could not have told why this feeling took possession of her; but there was a dim consciousness that she must be an awful wicked girl, and that it was somebody’s duty to punish her for this, and a wild wish that somebody would be quick about it, and have it all over with. In this state she was conscious of the opening of the door, and the presence of some one in the room. There was a light step by her side; a soft hand was placed upon her head.
“Becky, my child, you are making yourself miserable.”
Becky knew that well enough. Why should she be told what she knew so well? It was nobody’s business, any way. Why didn’t people attend to their own affairs? She failed to recognize the voice, and, being in an ugly state of misery, snatched the soft hand from its resting-place, and flung it rudely from her, with her eyes defiantly closed.
Mrs. Thompson did not replace the hand, did not repeat the words. She stood looking at the girl a moment, then passed across the room, and took a seat by the window. This movement set Becky to thinking. Who could it be? It was a kind voice, a warm, soft hand. There was no feeling of punishment in either. Why didn’t the visitor speak again? How rude she had been! Then there came a long pause. She was listening intently for some signs of her visitor’s presence. Hush! No; that was Teddy, snoring. She recognized that; and then—yes, some one was breathing by the window. Who could it be? Some one quietly waiting for her to get over her ugly fit. She felt a pair of eyes were fastened upon her. Wondered if her hair was fit to be seen, if there were any rents in her dress, and—and—O, dear, this was terrible! She would know the worst.
Suddenly she sprang up, and looking across the room, met the loving eyes of Mrs. Thompson; saw a smile wreathing about the lips; saw the arms of the good woman stretched out to her so invitingly, that, without further invitation, she ran into them, and nestled her head among the plaits of Mrs. Thompson’s merino, as if she had an undoubted right there. Then of course, she fell to crying again.
“O, Aunt Rebecca! you’re so good! and I’m so wicked!”
“No, no, pet. I’m a wicked woman for neglecting you so long. But it’s all right now. I have you in my arms, just as I had you when you were a baby; and I don’t mean to let you go. Now tell me what’s the matter.”
“Why, don’t you know? I’ve killed my mother!”
“No, no, pet. Dismiss that fear from your mind. She is very ill; perhaps may never recover; but the doctor says her disease has been a long time coming on.”
“And that I tumbled into the water, got most drowned, and frightened the life out of her,” burst out Becky. “O dear, dear! what will become of me?” And another deluge of tears swept over the placid bosom of Mrs. Thompson.