'Oh, you poor lamb!' cried Mrs. Dowson. 'No—Sir William tellt me nowt.
The Lord be gracious to you!' Bathed in sudden tears, she kissed one of
the hands that held hers, pouring out incoherent words of hope. But
Nelly did not cry, and presently she said firmly—
'Now, please, you must help me to pack. Sir William will be here at nine.'
Presently all was ready. Nelly had hunted out an old grey travelling dress in which George had often seen her, and a grey hat with a veil. She hastily put all her black clothes aside.
'Miss Martin will send me anything I want. I have asked her to come and fetch my things.'
'But Miss Cookson will be seein' to that!' said Mrs. Dowson wondering. Nelly made no reply. She locked her little box, and then stood upright, looking round the small room. She seemed to be saying 'Good-bye' for ever to the Nelly who had lived, and dreamed, and prayed there. She was going to George—that was all she knew.
Downstairs, Bridget was standing at the door of the little dining-room. 'I have put out some cold meat for you,' she said, stiffly. 'You won't get anything for a long time.'
Nelly acquiesced. She drank some tea, and ate as much as she could. Neither she nor Bridget spoke, till Bridget, who was at the window looking out into the snow, turned round to say—'Here's the motor.'
Nelly rose, and tied her veil on closely. Mrs. Dowson brought her a thick coat, which had been part of her trousseau, and wrapped her in it.
'You had better take your grey shawl,' said Bridget.
'I have it here, Miss,' said Mrs. Dowson, producing it. 'I'll put it over her in the motor.'