“Oh, it don’t matter about that,” said Sibyl, looking gravely back at her; “I mean it don’t matter now. Mr. Holman, what’s the most dusty of your toys, what’s the most scratched, what’s the toy that none of the other children would like?”
“I have a whole heap of ’em,” said Holman, shaking his head sadly.
“That he have, poor dear,” here interrupted Mrs. Holman. “How do you do, Missy, we are both glad to see you back again; we have had a dull season, very dull, and the children, they didn’t buy half the toys they ought to at Christmas time. It’s because our shop is in a back street.”
“Oh, but it’s a very nice street,” said Sibyl; “it’s retired, isn’t it? Well, I’ll buy twenty shillings’ worth of the most dusty of the toys, and please send them home to-morrow. Please, Miss Winstead, put the money down.”
Miss Winstead laid a sovereign on the counter.
“Good-by, Mr. Holman; good-by, Mrs. Holman,” said Sibyl. She shook hands solemnly with the old pair, and then went out of the shop.
“What ails her?” said Holman. “She looks as if something had died inside her. I don’t like her looks a bit.”
Mrs. Ogilvie enjoyed herself very much that evening. Her friends were glad to see her back. They were full of just the pleasant sympathy which she liked best to receive. She must be lonely without her husband. When would he return? When she said in a few months’ time, they congratulated her, and asked her how she had enjoyed herself at Grayleigh Manor. In short, there was that sort of fuss made about her which most appealed to her fancy. She forgot all about Sibyl. She looked at other women of her acquaintance, and thought that when her husband came home she would wear just as dazzling gems and just as beautiful dresses, and she, too, might talk about her country place, and invite her friends down to this rural retreat at Whitsuntide, and make up a nice house-party in the autumn, and again in the winter. Oh, yes, the world with its fascinations was stealing more and more into her heart, and she had no room for the best of all. She forgot her lonely child during these hours.
Mrs. Ogilvie returned from a fashionable reception between twelve and one in the morning. Hortense was up and tired. She could scarcely conceal her yawns as she unstitched the diamonds which she had sewn on her mistress’s dress earlier in the evening, and put away the different jewels. At last, however, her duties were over, and she went away to her room.
Mrs. Ogilvie got into bed, and closing her eyes, prepared to doze off into delicious slumber. She was pleasantly tired, and no more. As she sank into repose, the house in the country and the guests who would fill it mingled with her dreams. Suddenly she heard a clear voice in her ears. It awoke her with a sort of shock. She raised herself on her elbow, and saw her little daughter standing in her white nightdress by the bedside.