"I'm so glad," said Peggy. "Still it is sad to die," and she sighed. "Mamma dear, you won't be very long away, will you? It'll only be a little short parting, won't it?"
"Only a few weeks, dear. And I hope you won't be unhappy even though you must be a little lonely."
"If only I had a sister," said Peggy.
But mamma went on to tell her all she had planned. Miss Earnshaw, a dressmaker who used sometimes to come and sew, was to be with Peggy as much as she could. She was a gentle nice girl, and Peggy liked her.
"She has several things to make for me just now," said mamma, "and as she lives near, she will try to come every day, so that she will be with you at dinner and tea. And Fanny will help you to dress and undress, and either she or Miss Earnshaw will take you a walk every day that it is fine enough. And then in the evenings, of course, the boys will be at home, and papa will see you every morning before he goes."
"And I daresay he'll come up to see me in bed at night too," said Peggy. Then she was silent for a minute or two; the truth was, I think, that she was trying hard to swallow down a lump in her throat that would come, and to blink away two or three tiresome tears that kept creeping up to her eyes.
Two days later and they were gone. Mamma, nurse, Hal, and Baby, with papa to see them off, and two boxes outside the cab, and of course a whole lot of smaller packages inside.
Peggy stood at the front-door, nodding and kissing her hand and making a smile, as broad a one as she possibly could, to show that she was not crying.
When they were gone, really gone, and Fanny had shut the door, she turned kindly to Peggy.
"Now, Miss Peggy, love, what will you do? Miss Earnshaw won't be here till to-morrow. I'll try to be ready so as to take you out this afternoon if it's fine, for it's not a half-holiday. It'd be very dull for you all day alone—to-morrow the young gentlemen will be at home as it's Saturday."