One Sunday, when he had been gone about three weeks, and Nancy had been spending the day in the Rue Pomme Cuite, Mary Carimon walked home with her in the evening. Monsieur Jules had gone to see his cousin off by the nine-o’clock train—Mademoiselle Priscille Carimon, who had come in to spend the day with them. She lived at Drecques.
“You will come in with me, Mary?” said Ann Fennel, as they gained the door.
“To be sure I will,” replied Madame Carimon, laughing lightly, for none knew about the fears better than she.
Nancy took her hand as they went up the passage. She lighted the candle at the slab, and they went into the salon. Madame Carimon sat down for a few minutes, by way of reassuring her. Nancy took off her bonnet and mantle. On the table was a small tray with the tea-things upon it. Flore had left it there in readiness, not quite certain whether her mistress would come in to tea or not.
“I had such a curious dream last night,” began Nancy; “those tea-things put me in mind of it. Lavinia——”
“For goodness’ sake don’t begin upon dreams to-night!” interposed Madame Carimon. “You know they always frighten you.”
“Oh, but this was a pleasant dream, Mary. I thought that I and Lavinia were seated at a little table, with two teacups between us full of tea. The cups were very pretty; pale amber with gilt scrolls, and the china so thin as to be transparent. I can see them now. And Lavinia said something which made me smile; but I don’t remember what it was. Ah, Mary! if she were only back again with us!”
“She is better off, you know,” said Mary Carimon in tender tones.
“All the same, it was a cruel fate that took her; I shall never think otherwise. I wish I knew what it was she died of! Flore told me one day that Monsieur Podevin quite laughed at the idea of its being a chill.”
“Well, Nancy, it was you who stopped it, you know.”