“And so you were crying after that roving husband of yours! I guessed as much. He nearly ran over me at the gate. ‘Step in and see my wife, will you, Snow?’ said he. ‘She wants tonics, or something.’ You don’t want tonics half as much as you want common sense, Mrs. George Godolphin.”
“I am so weak,” was her feeble excuse. “A little thing upsets me now.”
“Well, and what can you expect? If I sat over my surgery fire all day stewing and fretting, a pretty doctor I should soon become for my patients! I wonder you——”
“Have you looked at my new black frock, Mr. Snow?”
She was a young lady who would be attended to, let who would go without attention. She had lifted up her white pinafore and stood in front of him, waiting for the frock to be admired.
“Very smart indeed!” replied Mr. Snow.
“It’s not smart,” spoke Meta resentfully. “My smart frocks are put away in the drawers. It is for Uncle Thomas, Mr. Snow! Mr. Snow, Uncle Thomas is in heaven now.”
“Ay, child, that he is. And it’s time that Miss Meta Godolphin was in bed.”
That same night Mr. Snow was called up to Mrs. George Godolphin.—Let us call her so to the end; but she is Mrs. Godolphin now. Margery was sleeping quietly, the child in a little bed by her side, when she was aroused by some one standing over her. It was her mistress in her night-dress. Up started the woman, wide awake instantly, crying out to know what was the matter.
“Margery, I shan’t be in time. The ship’s waiting to sail, and none of my things are ready. I can’t go without my things.”