“I am so glad you have come back, Rose,” said my mother; “you had scarlet fever when you were a little child, so there is no fear for you, and it will be a great comfort having you in the house.”
I did not make any immediate response to this speech of my mother’s. I had Hetty under my charge, and could not stay, and yet how queer my mother would think my absence just then. I wondered if I dared confide to her Jack’s secret. It was told me in great confidence, but still—While I was hesitating, my mother began to speak again.
“Jack has been delirious all the morning. In his delirium he has spoken constantly of a girl called Hetty. Do we know any one of the name, Rose?”
“I know some one of the name,” I responded.
“You!—But what friend have you that I am not acquainted with? I don’t believe there is a single girl called Hetty in this place.”
“I know a girl of the name,” I repeated. “She does not live here. She is a girl who is ill at present, and in—in great trouble, and I think I ought to go and nurse her. She is without the friend who should be with her, and it is right for me to take his place.”
“What do you mean, Rosamund? Right for you to go away, and nurse a complete stranger, when your own brother is so ill?”
“But he has you, and Jane Fleming. Jack won’t suffer for lack of nursing, and the girl has no one.”
“I have old-fashioned ideas,” said my mother. A pink flush covered her face. I had never seen her more disturbed. “I have old-fashioned ideas, and they tell me that charity begins at home.”
At this moment Jane Fleming softly opened the door and came in. She certainly was a model nurse; so quiet, so self-contained, so capable.