“You must take a great interest in this doll,” she continued. “Little Sibyl thinks so much of it. Forgive me, Mrs. Ogilvie, I——”
“Oh, what is it now,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “what can be the matter? Really everyone who goes near Sibyl acts in the most extraordinary way.” She looked petulantly, as she spoke, into Lady Helen’s agitated face.
“I cannot help thinking much of Sibyl,” continued Lady Helen, “and I am very—more than anxious about her. I am terribly grieved, for—I think——”
“You think what? Oh, please don’t begin to be gloomy now. You have only seen Sibyl for the first time since her accident. She is very much better than she was at first. You cannot expect her to look quite well all of a sudden.”
“But have you had the very best advice for her?”
“I should rather think so. We had Sir Henry Powell down twice. Everything has been done that could be done. It is merely a question of time and rest. Time and rest will effect a perfect cure; at least, that is my opinion.”
“But what is Sir Henry Powell’s opinion?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t believe in doctors. The child is getting better, I see it with my own eyes. It is merely a question of time.”
“Sibyl is getting well, but not in the way you think,” replied Lady Helen. She said the words with significance, and Mrs. Ogilvie felt her heart throb for a moment with a sudden wild pain, but the next instant she laughed.
“I never knew anyone so gloomy,” she said, “and you come to me with your queer remarks just when I am distracted about the great bazaar. I am almost sorry I asked you here, Lady Helen.”