"Yes," said the young lady very gently, "I remember being just the same as a child, when once my mother had to go away—to India it was—I was so pleased to see her new trunks and to watch all the packing. And now—how strange it seems that I could have endured the idea of her going—now that I shall never have her again!"
Her lip quivered, and she turned away. Mother spoke to her very, very kindly—the other lady, the nothing particular one was examining the cupboards in the room and did not notice.
"Have you lost your dear mother?" she—our mother, I mean—asked the young lady.
She could not speak for a moment. She just bowed her head. Then touching her dress she said in a sort of whisper, "Yes; quite lately. She died in London a fortnight ago. I have neither father nor mother now. I am staying for a while with my cousin."
Then, partly I think to hide the tears which would not be kept back, partly to help herself to grow calm again, she drew me to her and stroked my long hair which hung down my back below my queer bonnet.
"What is your name, dear?" she said.
"Audrey," I replied. "Audrey Mildred Gower is my long name," I added.
"'Audrey' is a very pretty name," said the young lady, still stroking my hair, "and Gower—that is not a very common name. Are you perhaps relations of Dr. Gower, of —— Street?"
"That's Uncle Geoff," cried the boys and I.
"He is my husband's brother," said mother.