Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
Writhing in her Agony.
“Mother!—father! Oh, in heaven’s name, speak to me! I cannot bear it. My heart is broken. What shall I do?”
“My poor darling!” sobbed Mrs Luttrell, holding her child to her breast and rocking to and fro, while the doctor sat with wrinkled face nursing and caressing Julia, who clung to him in a scared fashion, not having yet got over the terrors of the past night.
She had her arms about her grandfather, and nestled in his breast, but every now and then she started up to gaze piteously in his face.
“Would my dolls all be burnt, grandpa?”
“Oh, I hope not, my pet,” he said soothingly; “but never mind if they are: grandpa will buy you some better ones.”
“But I liked those, grandpa, and—and is my little bed burnt too?”
“No, my pet; I think not. I hope not. They put the fire out before it did a great deal of harm.”
The child laid her head down again for a few moments, and then looked up anxiously.