“When I say my prayers,” whispered Chrissie.
“So we’ve made a plan,” Leila went on, “of not talking—except just what we have to, you know, either dressing or undressing.”
“A very good plan at all times,” said Miss Fortescue, “even when there is no special reason for it. When I was a child, it was a rule among us. It keeps tempers and feelings calm and quiet in a wonderful way to begin and end the day in silence. But what is this one thing that distresses you so?”
Both children looked down. Then there came the whisper—“Can’t you guess, Auntie? It’s Mummy’s not knowing yet—Mummy and Daddy.” Miss Fortescue stooped to kiss them.
“Dears,” she said, “I can give you some comfort. They do know—only a day or two ago I wrote a long letter to your mother. She cannot write back, as it might bring infection, but she spoke to me out of the window yesterday. I was to tell you—I was only waiting for a quiet time this afternoon—to tell you that they both, Daddy and Mummy, send you their full and loving forgiveness.”
Chrissie drew a deep breath of relief.
“I think God has forgiven us by making Japs get better,” she said.
“Need he ever know?” asked Leila.
“Not about the way he caught the illness,” said Aunt Margaret. “We think it better not. But about the prayer-book, yes. From what you both told me, that was evidently on his mind, and it will make him happy to know that Chrissie has at last kept what he believed to be a promise. You must not see your mother, dears, before she takes Jasper to the seaside, as the house has to be thoroughly disinfected, but when they go—next week we hope—she is planning to pass by us on their way to the station, so that she, and perhaps little Jasper, may nod and smile to you.”
“Auntie,” said Leila, “I’m afraid it’ll all cost a lot—doing the house, and the doctor and the nurse, and going to the seaside, and even us at Mrs Greenall’s; and it needn’t have been, and we’ve so little money now.”