"No, don't, nurse, don't. I must not yield to this nameless thing. I must—I will be brave. And the child, my own little child, will comfort me."
"What is the nameless thing, dear madam?"
"I cannot—I won't speak of it. Esther, are you—are you going?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Wyndham. I mean, not yet."
"That is right. Take this chair; warm yourself. Esther. I don't look on you as an ordinary nurse. Long ago I used to be so much interested in you."
"It was very kind of you, madam; young ladies, as a rule, have no time to interest themselves in poor girls."
"But I had plenty of time, and did interest myself. My father was always so much attached to yours. I was an only child and you were an only child. I used to wonder if you and your father cared for each other as passionately, as loyally, as I and my father cared."
"I don't know that, madam; we did love each other. Our love remains unchanged. True love ought never to change, ought it?"
"It ought never to change," repeated Mrs. Wyndham. Her face grew white, her lips trembled. "Sometimes true love is killed by a blow," she said suddenly. Then her expression changed again, she tried to look cheerful. "I won't talk any more. I am sleepy, and that nest near baby looks inviting. Good-night, dear nurse."