“My dear, are, you strong enough?”
“Quite. There's nothing wrong with me now except here.” She drew his hand to her and pressed it against her heart. “What's given, one can't get back. I can't help it; I would if I could. It's been so dreadful for you. I'm so sorry.” Winton made an unintelligible sound, and she went on: “If I had them to see after, I shouldn't be able to think so much; the more I had to do the better. Good for our gipsy-bird, too, to have them there. I should like to begin it at once.”
Winton nodded. Anything that she felt could do her good—anything!
“Yes, yes,” he said; “I quite see—you could use the two old cottages to start with, and we can easily run up anything you want.”
“Only let me do it all, won't you?”
At that touch of her old self, Winton smiled. She should do everything, pay for everything, bring a whole street of children down, if it would give her any comfort!
“Rosamund'll help you find 'em,” he muttered. “She's first-rate at all that sort of thing.” Then, looking at her fixedly, he added: “Courage, my soul; it'll all come back some day.”
Gyp forced herself to smile. Watching her, he understood only too well the child's saying: “Mum lives away somewhere, I think.”
Suddenly, she said, very low:
“And yet I wouldn't have been without it.”