Then her face brightened up, and plunging one hand under the pillow she brought out a very crumpled letter, a letter that had been hugged and kissed till it was scarcely readable.
Screwing up her grey eyes, Coppertop read it, word by word, keeping her place with a wet finger with which she had just flicked away a tear:
My Dearest Child,—
I am writing this letter to you from our bungalow at Simla—the one in which you stayed two years ago—do you remember?
I am sitting on the verandah, looking out over the mountains, and thinking of you, my darling, oh, so hard, that I believe I can almost see you, dancing through the long grass in the orchard, and climbing the trees, to see if the green apples are not too hard for your strong little teeth. And, dear, you really must not eat green apples, they are not good for little girls—it is so much better to let them grow into big, rosy ones.
Daddy is lying in the deck-chair under the punkah, and the breeze from it is making his hair stand up in queer little tufts—you would laugh so to see it—and he is snoring! Snoring so loudly that I thought it was the punkah. He is sound asleep, and dreaming, I expect, of his darling little girl in far-away Australia.
And now for some beautiful news! We are coming back to our little girl. Daddy has applied for his leave, and we may sail quite, quite soon.
I expect we shall go to England first, and then back again, through the Canal, and see the Pyramids and the Arab donkey-boys, and the camels. Take care of that little bronze camel Daddy gave you—don’t lose it, dear.
And try to be good to Mrs. Grudge, and do as she tells you.
How I am longing to give you a big, big hug.
Good-bye, my own darling child.
MUMMIE.
P.S.—Daddy will write next mail.
When she came to the last line Coppertop’s lips trembled, and two big tears rolled down her cheeks. It was just that “Big, big hug” that she was wanting this very minute.
“Of course,” she said to herself, “I’ve got Tibbs and Kiddiwee, and although they’re only ’maginary brothers, they do get terrifkly real at times, and I’ve got this pudgy little bronze camel—Miss Smiler—but they don’t make up for Mummie and Daddy, and it seems so long waiting for them to come.”
She sat lost in thought for some minutes, then she yawned and lay back on the pillow. The candle winked and spluttered and sent huge shadows dancing upon the walls and ceiling with each flicker. Coppertop wished dreamily that she could be a shadow too, and tried to imagine just how it would feel to be dancing upon the ceilings, and growing suddenly large and small, and long or short, as the shadows seemed to do.
“It’s a regular witches’ dance!” she exclaimed. And as she said this, there came a nervous tap-tap at the door.
Coppertop lay very still, with a wildly-beating heart, wondering if she had really heard a tap on the door or not.
Then a voice said:
“Miss Celia! Are you awake?” It was Jane, the maid, who spoke, but in a voice so hushed and mysterious that it sent a shiver down the child’s back.