"I know. And poor Elsie—I'm afraid we came down pretty hard on her. I think I'll just go and see how she is."
Mrs. Moss followed. Miss Pritchard tapped lightly at Elsie's door. There was no response and she opened it softly. Then she beckoned the other with a look on her plain face that made it very sweet.
Together they stood over the little figure on the big bed. Elsie had cried herself to sleep. She looked young and sweet and innocent, her brown head with its short locks against the pillow, her lips parted, her hand under one cheek, and the shadow of a dimple visible.
They turned away, the eyes of both being filled with tears. And when they were back in Miss Pritchard's sitting-room they seemed somehow nearer one another, almost like old friends.
"She's too sweet and good for the stage," cried Mrs. Moss. "Do you suppose we can get her away? Do you think she'll be willing to give up and cultivate her voice instead?"
"Willing? Not Elsie! The child's more crazy about the stage than ever. And as for easily persuading her to settle down to daily drudgery with no excitement in view for years—" She shrugged her shoulders.
"She doesn't look now as if she had a will of her own, does she, with her hand under her cheek and her darling baby lips parted?" cried her step-mother.
Miss Pritchard's eyes filled a second time. Then suddenly an idea flashed into her mind.
"Oh, Mrs. Moss, you'll be awfully shocked, but do you know what your words have put into my head? I feel like a wicked conspirator collecting his pals, but—listen—you and I must attack Elsie at once and get her to forswear the stage and take up music."
Mrs. Moss couldn't see any difference in this proposition from anything previously proposed.