Margot's hands trembled. She put the tray down on the bedside table and pulled the girl across the room and coaxed her into the bed, rubbing the small bandaged foot, cuddling the quilts about her, as she tucked the pillows. "So many questions!" she evaded. "Eat your breakfast and I will help you dress—"
Felicia snuggled under the covers and nibbled her toast hungrily.
"Yesterday," she confided, "I was unhappy; it seemed too far to come—
I was afraid, from something Marthy said, that I wasn't going to find
Maman—she said I mustn't set my heart on it—"
Margot sighed. She came close to the bed and took Felicia's hands in hers.
"Listen carefully," she entreated, "the thing I have to tell you is hard. You see when Octavia went away from you she did not come here, she—"
"Where did she go?" demanded Felicia sitting bolt upright.
"She went—" Margot's throaty voice dragged painfully, "She went where all good women go when their work is done—"
"Her work wasn't done," objected Felice. "She said it would be a great deal of work to build the garden over, she said she was afraid it would be all weeds—Piqueur was so old—she said—Oh! why are you weeping, Margot?"
"When she went away from me first," moaned Margot, "I thought I could never stand it—it was so still and so lonely here in the woods without her—and now, after all these years that I have learned to live without her—it is as if she had gone away again to have to try— to tell you—" she knelt at the bedside, her lips moved piteously. "Try to understand, little one, she is gone—neither you nor I can find her—"
"Nor the Major?" asked Felicia incredulously.