She ran downstairs, clasped her doll to her heart, and crouching over the fire, presently fell asleep.
It was during Nan Esterleigh’s sleep that her mother died. Mrs. Esterleigh died without a pang or a struggle—she just ceased to breathe; and Mrs. Richmond, with tears in her eyes, came downstairs.
Nan had stretched herself full length on the hearth-rug. The doll was clasped to her breast; her sallow little face looked more sallow than usual, and Mrs. Richmond noticed how black and long were the lashes that rested against her cheeks.
“Poor little girl, she is my care now,” thought the good woman. “I know what I should like to do; I should like to pick her up, and wrap a shawl round her, and take her right away in the cab with me. Nora will be nice to her, and Kitty will show her her favourite kittens. I have a great mind to try.”
But just then the big black eyes were opened wide, and Nan sat up and stared at Mrs. Richmond.
“What are you doing here?” she said. “Is mother no better? Has nobody thought of giving her her tea?”
“Come here, Nancy,” said Mrs. Richmond. “I have something I want to say to you.”
“But I don’t want to listen,” answered Nan; and she clutched her doll tightly in her embrace, staggered to her feet, and stood, with defiance in her eyes, a few feet away from Mrs. Richmond.
“Dear, dear! she is an extraordinary child,” thought the good lady. “She will be very difficult to manage. I should not be a scrap surprised if she felt this very much; some children do, and I should not be astonished if she was the sort, she is so stubborn and self-contained—not a pleasant child by any means. But Amy’s little girl shall always have a warm corner in my heart—always, always.”
“Come here, Nan,” she said again.