“Sing, Annie—sing ‘Baby Bun.’”
And all the time the eyes remained wide-open, and the little hands were burning hot; but, gradually, after more than two hours of constant singing, Annie began to fancy that the burning skin was cooler. Then—could she believe it?—she saw the lids droop over the wide-open eyes. Five minutes later, to the tune of “Baby Bunting,” Nan had fallen into a deep and sound sleep.
Chapter Twenty Five.
A Spoilt Baby.
In the morning Nan was better, and although for days she was in a very precarious state, and had to be kept as quiet as possible, yet Miss Danesbury’s great dread that fever would set in had passed away. The doctor said, however, that Nan had barely escaped real injury to her brain, and that it would be many a day before she would romp again, and play freely and noisily with the other children. Nan had chosen her own nurse, and with the imperiousness of all babies—to say nothing of sick babies—she had her way. From morning till night Annie remained with her, and when the doctor saw how Annie alone could soothe and satisfy the child he would not allow it to be otherwise. At first Nan would lie with her hand in Annie’s, and her little cry of “Sing, Annie,” going on from lime to time; but as she grew better Annie would sit with her by the open window, with her head pillowed on her breast, and her arm round the little slender form, and Nan would smile and look adoringly at Annie, who would often return her gaze with intense sadness, and an indescribable something in her face which caused the little one to stroke her cheek tenderly, and say in her sweet baby voice—
“Poor Annie; poor tibby Annie!”
They made a pretty picture as they sat there. Annie, with her charming gypsy face, her wild, luxuriant, curly hair, all the sauciness and unrest in her soothed by the magic of the little child’s presence; and the little child herself, with her faint wild-rose colour, her dark deep eyes, clear as summer pools, and her sunshiny golden hair. But pretty as the picture was Hester loathed it, for Hester thought during these wretched days that her heart would break.
Not that Nan turned away from Hetty; she petted her and kissed her and sometimes put an arm round Hetty and an arm round Annie, as though, if she could, she would draw them together; but anyone could see that her heart of hearts was given to Annie, and that Hester ranked second in her love. Hester would not for worlds express any of her bitter feelings before Annie; nay, as the doctor and Miss Danesbury both declared that, however culpable Annie might have been in causing the accident, she had saved little Nan’s life by her wonderful skill in soothing her to sleep on the first night of her illness, Hester had felt obliged to grumble something which might have been taken for “thanks.”