“Did you open it, Peggy?”
“Faix thin, no, ma’am, is it likely?”
“I shouldn’t think it was likely. Well, Peggy, my dear, you must be sensible. Whatever the girls said to one another they didn’t mean you to hear, therefore you must act as though you did not hear it, and I must act as though you did not hear it, and you must not repeat another word of it to me. I am extremely sorry, my child, that anything should have happened to annoy you, and now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You shall sleep to-night in your dear old hospital, and to-morrow Biddy O’Donnell shall go into the room next to your cousins, and you shall sleep in her room. Come, is that better?”
“Oh Mrs. Fleming, ain’t ye a wonder, to be sure?”
“No more tears now, Peggy. Ah! here comes Miss Greene.—Henrietta, this poor little child is not as strong as I could wish. Will you kindly ask Lucy Forrest to sleep in the hospital with her to-night, and will you, Henrietta dear, take her there at once now, and see that she goes to bed? Don’t leave her until Lucy Forrest has charge of her. Now, then, good-night, my Irish pickle.”
But when Peggy had gone, and Mrs. Fleming found herself alone, she sat for a long time lost in thought. She pressed her hand to her brow and a look of distress flitted across her eyes. This was quite unusual in her case, for she was such a very placid woman. There came a tap at her door in the course of the next hour, and Henrietta Greene entered.
“Henrietta, you are the woman of all others I want. Do you know, I am in a bit of a quandary?”
“What about, dear Mrs. Fleming?”
“About that Irish child.”
“I think she’s all right now,” answered Miss Greene. “I have left her playing a very merry game with Lucy Forrest and little Elisabeth and Chloe. I am sure she is all right.”