CHAPTER XXI. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
The next morning rose beautiful and bright and fair. The town was gay as gay could be; flags were hung from almost every window, and the hum of a great content seemed to fill the air.
In Violet's room all was still. The carriage had been pushed back into the corner of the room, and the little girl was asleep. She had been sleeping nearly all the morning; indeed so profound was her repose that Evelina had grown nervous and summoned the doctor, whose carriage she had seen outside the toy-shop door.
He came in quietly and stood beside the bed. The child's breathing was quick and regular, and her hand lay softly open upon the counterpane. "How long has she slept like this?" he asked in a low voice of Evelina, who stood with tearful eyes near the window.
"Ever since last night when I put her to bed. It was the news of the victory, sir, which I think upset her."
"Who told her of it?"
"Little Ella, sir, Madam Adler's daughter."
"Ah, of course, of course, children will talk; and she must have heard it some time or other. Has she spoken at all since morning?"
"A few words, sir, but not much sense in them; about larks and flowers, and about wings—she is always rambling on to me about having wings."
"She will soon have them," said the doctor shortly.