“O aunty!” I said, “I do so want to say good-night to Winny. I always say good-night, and last night I couldn’t.”
Aunty thought for a minute. She looked so sorry for me. Then she said, “I will see if I can manage it. Come after me, Meg.” She went up through a part of the house I did not know, and into a room where there was a closed door. She tapped at it without opening, and called out. “Meg has come to say good-night to you, through the door, Winny dear.”
Then I heard Winny’s voice say softly, “I am so glad;” and I called out quite loud, “Good-night, Winny,” but Winny answered—I could not hear her voice without listening close at the door—“Not good-night now, Meg. It is good-bye, dear Meg.”
I looked up at aunty. It seemed to me her face had grown white, and the tears were in her eyes. Somehow, I felt a little afraid.
“What does Winny mean, aunty?” I said in a whisper.
“I don’t know, dear. Perhaps being ill makes her head confused,” she said. So I called out again, “Good-night, Winny,” and aunty led me away.
But Winny was right. It was good-bye. The next morning when aunty’s maid was dressing me, I saw she was crying.
“What is the matter, Hortense?” I said. “Why are you unhappy? Is any one vexed with you?”
But she only shook her head and would not speak.
After I had had my breakfast, Hortense took me to my aunties’ sitting-room. And when she opened the door, to my delight there was mamma, sitting with both my aunties by the fire. I was so pleased, I gave quite a cry of joy, and jumped on to her knee.