“There, there,” whispered her aunt, with all the sharp jerkiness of manner gone. “Cheer up a bit, and well see what’s to be done. You did quite right to come down. Uncle and I will take care of you and the bairns.”
“But I must go back directly,” said Sage, sitting up and smoothing her hair. “I came down to ask uncle and Mr Mallow to help us, but Mr Mallow is so angry with Cyril that I am almost afraid to go.”
“Oh, I’ll go and have a talk to him, my darling,” said the Churchwarden; “and we’ll see if we can’t set things a bit right. Ah, that’s better,” he cried, as one of the maids entered with a hot cup of tea. “There, my dear, drink that. Don’t wait, Anne.”
The girl, who was staring open-mouthed, left the room, and, after some persuasion, Sage drank the tea.
“I want to tell you, uncle,” she cried, after holding her hands for a few moments to her temples, as if her head was confused, and her thoughts wandering away. “I want to tell you all, but I seem to be hearing the rattle of the train in my head, and jolting over the road in that cart, with the children crying with the cold.”
“But they are fast asleep, and comfortable now, my girl,” said the Churchwarden, soothingly. “Suppose you have a nap, and tell us all your trouble later on.”
“No, no,” she cried, “I must tell you now, for I want to get back to Cyril.”
She stared about so wildly that the Churchwarden and his wife exchanged glances.
“Is Cyril at home, then?” said Portlock, as if to help her regain the current of her thoughts.
“Home?” she cried. “No: we have no home. Everything has been seized and sold; and we have been changing about from lodging to lodging, for Cyril did not wish to be seen.”