“Molly, darling,” she said, “you come first.”
She took Molly’s hand; she led her round the screen and brought her up to her mother. Just for a moment the girl shut her eyes. There flashed before her mental vision the remembrance of that mother as she had lain pale and panting and struggling for life when she had left her, pretending that she was only sleeping. But now Mrs Aldworth was sitting bolt upright on her sofa, and the room was sweet and fresh and in perfect order, and a nice-looking young woman in nurse’s uniform stood up when the girls entered the room.
“I will leave you, Mrs Aldworth, and go and get my tea,” she said. “You will be glad to welcome your young ladies. But remember not too much talking, please.”
Mrs Aldworth raised her faded eyes; she looked full at Molly.
“My little girl!”
“Mothery; oh, mothery!”
The girl dropped on her knees.
“Gently, Molly. Sit down there. Tell mother what a right good time you have had while you have been away,” said Marcia.
“I am ever so much better,” said Mrs Aldworth, in a cheerful tone. “I am very glad you were with the Carters. You like them so much.”
“Yes, mother,” said Molly, and then she added, and there was real truth and real sincerity in her tone—“I like best of all to be at home; I like best of all to be with you.”