“Not mothers such as you,” I replied. “Mothers worthy of the name would never do such a thing,” she replied. “Why, Rosamund, a mother—I say it in all reverence—stands something in the place of God. When we are truly repentant we never feel nearer to God, and so a boy is never truly nearer to his mother than when he has done something wrong, and is sorry for it. Come up-stairs with me at once, I must help you to make your preparations. You have not an hour to lose in going to Jack’s Hetty.” My mother was so excited, so enthusiastic, that she would scarcely give me breathing-time to put my things together.
“You must not delay,” she kept on saying. “You have told me how careless the landlady is, and that poor child has had no one to do anything for her since early morning. Rose, dear, how is she off for little comforts, and clothes and those sort of things?”
“I should say, very badly off, mother. Hetty is as poor as poor can be.”
“I have one or two night-dresses,” began my mother.
“Now, mother, you are not going to deprive yourself.”
“Don’t talk of it in that light, Rose. Hetty is my daughter, remember.”
I felt a fierce pang of jealousy at this. My mother left the room, and presently returned with a neatly-made-up parcel.
“You will find some small necessaries for the poor child here,” she said. “And now go, my darling, and God bless you. One word first, however. How are you off for money, Rose?”
“I have plenty, mother. Don’t worry yourself on that point.”
“I have a little pearl ring up-stairs, which I could sell, if necessary.”