“I do like her,” Jean said. They were tucked into bed together, the moonlight coming in through the open window, and making a white ray across the sheet.
“She’s just a dear,” Norah agreed. “But, oh! hasn’t she sorry eyes! Don’t you wish one could make her forget?”
“My word!” said Jean, with emphasis. “But no mother ever could forget losing a little kiddie, I expect. And she hasn’t got any others.”
There came a tap at the half-open door, and Mrs. Archdale came in. She sat down on Norah’s side of the bed, which was nearest the door. The moonlight fell on her face, showing it quite colourless.
“You’re quite comfortable?” she asked. “That’s right. I thought I’d like to see. I like some one to tuck up. I thought I’d come and—and tuck you up.”
Something in her voice kept them silent. But Norah put out a half-nervous hand, and Mrs. Archdale took it and held it.
“And—and tell you about her,” she said.
Then she was silent again. Outside in the paddocks a curlew was calling wearily across the timber.
“I’m sure I must have frightened you this afternoon,” she said at last. “I was dreadfully ashamed of myself.”
“Please, don’t!” Norah whispered. “We shouldn’t have asked you.”