“Do you mean the lady that was on the train with you?” asked the young man.
“Yes—Mattie,” eagerly.
“Was she your mamma, dear?” Mrs. de Vere inquired.
“No, no!” said Sweetheart, quickly. “Not mamma; only Mattie!”
“Your nurse, perhaps?”
“Only des Mattie, dat’s all,” was the uncompromising reply; and although they questioned her closely, they could get nothing definite from her. She had only some vague ideas of a beautiful mamma, who called her Sweetheart, and who taught her to sing some pretty little song. The shock of all she had gone through had somehow blunted the keenness of her memory, and after that one flash of recollection when she had called for Mattie so eagerly, she said no more of the past, and presently the tired head drooped to Norman’s arm and she slept heavily.
The young man laid her softly on the bed, kissed the sweet little sleeping face, and turned to go.
“Mother, won’t you join us in the drawing-room this evening? I should think Nance might sit awhile with Sweetheart,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she answered, evasively; and then he went away, wondering uneasily whether Camille would be angry because he had stayed longer than he had intended, for the simple reason that he had feared to put the sleeping child out of his arms, lest she should be awakened.
To his relief, Camille was not yet in the drawing-room.