“If you want to say anything to me, please, Mrs. Richmond, be quick,” said Nan, who was now wide awake and felt absolutely composed; “I must go up to mother. This is the hour for her tea; I always make it myself for her. I know just how much she wants put into the little brown teapot, and the right quantity of milk and sugar; and, oh! I am going to toast her bread for her, for Mrs. Vincent does send it up so hard and untempting. Perhaps you will come another day, Mrs. Richmond, and talk to me then.”
“I must talk to you now, Nancy, my poor little girl; I have something to say.”
Curious emotions stirred in the child’s breast. She stood quite still for a moment; then she said slowly:
“You had better not say it.”
“I must; it is about your mother.”
“What! is mother worse?”
“She is better, Nancy.” Mrs. Richmond’s eyes brimmed over with tears.
“Then how silly of you to cry!” said the child, her face brightening up, and smiles dawning round her lips. “If she was worse you might cry—not that you ought ever to cry, for she is no relation of yours; but if she is better, Sophia Maria and I will sing.”
“Nancy dear, I cannot break it to you. I must tell it to you at once, and God help you to bear it. Your mother is better in one sense—in the sense that God has taken her away from all her pains. She won’t ever be tired or ill or sorry any more, and she will never again have aches or wakeful nights or sad days; she has gone to God. There is a beautiful heaven, you know, Nan, and—— Oh, good gracious! what ails the child?”
Nan had given one smothered scream and had rushed from the room. Fast—very fast—did the little feet run upstairs. Mrs. Esterleigh’s room was on the third floor. Past the drawing-room landing she ran, where a good-natured-looking old gentleman resided. He was coming out of his comfortable drawing-room, and he saw the scared little face. He knew, of course, what had happened, and he wondered if the child knew. He called to her: