"Oh, Horace, how can I leave them?"
"My poor Marie," said papa. "What is to be done? I cannot give it up—nor without you can I undertake it. Bertram would have got it if he had had a wife, but it is never given to an unmarried man."
"I know," said mother. "I know all you can say. It is just because there is nothing else to be done that I am so miserable. I cannot help it to-night—to-morrow I will try to be braver; but—oh, I have been so happy with them to-day, and so glad they were getting better and that dear little Racey had not got it—for whatever Dr. Nutt says, I cannot help being glad of that—oh, I have been so happy with them."
"Perhaps it was cruel of me to tell you to-night," said papa very sorry-ly.
"Oh no, it was much better," said mother, quickly. "There is so little time, and so much to settle. Besides, you couldn't have kept it from me, Horace. I should have been sure to find out there was something the matter. Tell me what is the latest we should have to go."
"Six or seven weeks hence. I don't think it could possibly be made later," said papa. And then he went on to explain things to mother, which at that time I couldn't understand (though I dare say I should now), and therefore have forgotten—about the work he would have to do, and the money he would get, and all that.
But I had heard enough. My heart seemed as if it was going to stop. Mother going away—to have to live without mother—it didn't seem to me so much a grief, as an impossibility. I think I was rather a babyish child for my age in some ways. I was very fond of the boys, and I was very unhappy if ever I was away from them, but I don't think I had ever thought much about whether I loved anybody or not. And I know that sometimes people said I wasn't affectionate. Things hadn't happened to make me think about anything in any deep way. We had always lived in the same house—even in the same rooms—and we had had our breakfasts and dinners and teas with the same plates and cups and saucers, and mother had always been there, just like the daylight to us. I couldn't fancy being without her, and so just at first I couldn't tell if I was dreadfully unhappy or not. I was too startled to know. But I think in another moment I would have jumped out of bed and rushed to mother, if I hadn't heard just then something which I quite understood, and which I listened to with the greatest interest and curiosity.
"Yes," mother was saying, for, for a minute or two, you understand, I hadn't been listening. "Yes, I see no better plan. It isn't as if either you or I had had a mother or sisters to send them to. And as you say, with Geoffrey, their health will be thoroughly looked after, and he will be very kind to them, and we can depend on his telling us the truth about them. Anything is better than sending them to strangers."
"That's what he said," replied papa. "He was quite full of it when I went to-day to tell him of this most unexpected proposal. He is so very eager for me to accept it that he would do anything. His house is large, much larger than he needs; and of course he knows more about children than most unmarried men, through seeing them so constantly when they are ill. And then, Marie, there is Partridge—that is a great thing."
"Yes," said mother, gently, but not very eagerly. I knew the tone of her voice when she spoke that way—I could feel that she was smiling a little—she always did when she didn't want to seem to disagree with papa and yet didn't quite agree with him, for papa always gets so eager about things, and is sure they'll all come right. "Yes," said mother, "I'm sure Partridge is very good and kind, but she's old, you know, Horace. Audrey and the boys must have a young nurse, besides—I wish Pierson were not going to be married."