My head grew dizzy again with trying to think, and a faint miserable feeling came over me and I burst into tears.
I did not cry loudly. But there was some one watching in the room who would have heard even a fainter sound than that of my sobs—some one sitting behind my bed-curtains whom I had not seen, who came forward now and leant over me, saying, in words and voice which seemed curiously familiar to me,
"Geraldine, my poor little girl."
[CHAPTER XI.]
KIND FRIENDS.
It was Miss Fenmore. I knew her again at once. And she called me "my poor little girl"—the very words she had used when she said good-bye to me and looked so sorry before she went away for the Easter holidays, never to come back, though she did not then know it, to Green Bank.
"You remember me, dear?" she said, in the sweet tones I had loved to hear. "Don't speak if you feel too ill or if it tires you. But don't feel frightened or unhappy, though you are in a strange place—everything will be right."
I felt soothed almost at once, but my curiosity grew greater.