“She will sleep now, I think,” she said. “She is quite quiet and peaceful. A near relative of yours, Mr. Knowles?”
“She is Mr. Knowles's niece,” explained her husband.
“Oh, yes. A sweet girl she seems. And very pretty, isn't she.”
I did not answer. Mr. Jameson and his wife turned to go.
“I presume you will wish to communicate with her people,” said the former. “Shall I send you telegram forms?”
“Not now,” I stammered. Telegrams! Her people! She had no people. We were her people. We had taken her in charge and were responsible. And how and when would that responsibility be shifted!
What on earth should we do with her?
Hephzy tiptoed in. Her expression was a curious one. She was very solemn, but not sad; the solemnity was not that of sorrow, but appeared to be a sort of spiritual uplift, a kind of reverent joy.
“She's asleep,” she said, gravely; “she's asleep, Hosy.”
There was precious little comfort in that.