“Maria! don’t, my dear! don’t cry! hush! oh, poor thing, hush! there! there!”
Honor rocked back and forth, as if she were soothing a little child. Pity flowed from her like a warm current; she felt the rigid form relax, the head sink on her shoulder. The sobs continued, but they were less heavy and dreadful, more like natural crying.
“There! there!” repeated Honor. “Now you are better, dear. Let me cover you up a little; you are half frozen.”
“Is it—is it Honor?” Maria spoke in a broken whisper.
“Yes! but let me rub your hands, Maria! I’m going to get my hot-water bottle!”
“No! no! don’t leave me! stay just a little longer! You don’t know—or did they tell you?”
“You shall tell me!” Honor gently forced Maria to lie down, and tucked the bed-clothes round her. “Lie still a moment, and I’ll come back.”
In three minutes she was back with the hot-water bottle.
“There! it’s not very hot, just right to hold in your hands. Now tell—no, I won’t take cold; I have my wrapper on, and it’s warm as soup. Tell me all about it, Maria!”
Maria drew a long sobbing breath.