"Papa's was Thomas, and mamma's Ursula," I answered, wondering very much.
He wrote down the name, asked a few more questions, and then showed me out at the street-door, giving a parting injunction that I was not to forget the words of his message to Mrs. Edwin Barley, and not to mention abroad that I had been to his office.
Reaching home without hindrance, I was about to enter the sickroom, when Miss Delves softly called to me from the upper stairs: Mrs. Edwin Barley was sleeping, and must not be disturbed. So I went higher up to take my things off, and Charlotte Delves asked me into her chamber—a very nice one, immediately over Mrs. Edwin Barley's.
"Tread softly, my dear. If she can only sleep, it will do her good."
I would not tread at all, though the carpet was thick and soft, but sat down on the first chair. Miss Delves was changing her cap. She wore very nice ones always.
"Miss Delves, I wish you'd please to tell me. Do you think my aunt will get well?"
"It is to be hoped so," was the answer. "But Mr. Edwin Barley is fretting himself to fiddle-strings over it."
"Do you think she will?"
Miss Delves was combing out her long flaxen curls; bright thick curls they were; very smooth, and of an exceedingly light shade. She twirled two round her finger before she answered.
"Yes, I think she will. It is true that she is very ill—very; but, on the other hand, she has youth in her favour."