“Papa, I want Joyce.”
“I will send her home to you. I am going for your mamma after dinner.”
“For mamma?—oh, I remember now. Papa, how shall I know mamma in Heaven? Not this mamma.”
Mr. Carlyle did not immediately reply. The question may have puzzled him. William continued hastily; possibly mistaking the motive of the silence.
“She will be in Heaven, you know.”
“Yes, yes, child,” speaking hurriedly.
“Madame Vine knows she will. She saw her abroad; and mamma told her that—what was it, madame?”
Madame Vine grew sick with alarm. Mr. Carlyle turned his eyes upon her scarlet face—as much as he could get to see of it. She would have escaped from the room if she could.
“Mamma was more sorry than she could bear,” went on William, finding he was not helped. “She wanted you, papa, and she wanted us, and her heart broke, and she died.”
A flush rose to Mr. Carlyle’s brow. He turned inquiringly to Madame Vine.