And besides this, for Bertrand there might have been some excuse; he had been neglected and yet spoilt; he had never known what it was truly to love any one, whereas Ruby had lived in love all her life; and this was her return for it.
“I have killed my little Mavis,” she sobbed. “Yes, it has been all me. We needn’t have minded Bertrand; he couldn’t have made me naughty if I hadn’t let him. Oh, Mavis, Mavis, whatever shall I do?” Her glance fell again on the flowers in her hand. They were not the least withered or spoilt, but as fresh as if just newly gathered. They seemed to smile up at her, and she felt somehow comforted.
“Dear little flowers,” she said. Seldom in her life had Ruby spoken so tenderly. She started, as close beside her she heard a faint sigh.
“Ruby,” said a voice, “can you hear me?”
“Yes,” said the little girl, beginning to tremble.
“But you cannot see me? and yet I am here, close to you, as I have often been before. Try Ruby, try to see me.”
“Are—are you a mermaid, or a—that other thing?” asked the child.
There came a little laugh, scarcely a laugh, then the sigh again.
“If you could see me you would know how foolish you are,” said the voice. “But I must have patience—it will come—your eyes are not strong, Ruby; they are not even as strong as Bertrand’s.”