"They'll be the death of me yet—those stairs!" she panted. "I often tell my son I'm not fitted to mount up and down a dozen times a day, now in my old age; but, la! what do young men care?"
"Very true, ma'am," replied the imperturbable nurse to this somewhat obscure speech.
"And how's your patient?" continued the old lady.
"Very bad, ma'am—'stericky and wild-like. I left her crying, poor soul!"
"Crying! For what?"
"Because I wouldn't help her to escape, poor dear!" said Mrs. Sharpe in a tone of commiseration. "She's greatly to be pitied."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Oleander, carelessly; "you couldn't help her, you know, even if you would. There's Peter, and Sally, and me on the watch all day long, and from nightfall we let loose Tiger and Nero. They'd tear you both to pieces in five minutes. Tell her so, poor creature, if she talks any more of escape."
"I will, ma'am," responded the respectful Mrs. Sharpe.
Mrs. Oleander ascended the stairs and went to her own room, very well satisfied with the submissive and discreet new nurse; and the new nurse descended to the kitchen, and prepared her patient's supper of tea and toast, delicate sliced ham, and raspberry preserves.
The dusk of the sunless afternoon was falling out-of-doors ere her preparations were completed, and the stair-ways and halls of the dreary house were in deepest gloom as she returned to her patient's room.