"I am very sorry for poor Mrs. Nest. She has been so kind to us."
"Yes," said Roger. Then a bright idea struck him. "I'll say my prayers for her to be made better to-night. Will you, Gladdie?"
"Yes," said Gladys, and there was comfort in the thought to her, for it brought with it another. "I'll ask God to help us," she thought to herself, "and when I go to bed I'll think and think, and perhaps He'll put something in my head. Perhaps I must try to write to Miss Susan."
The loss of Madame Nestor's constant kindness was quickly felt. No one came near the children, and when Gladys crept downstairs there was no light in the little sitting-room—no glasses of milk and plate of rolls waiting for them on the table, as had become a habit. And Roger was cold and hungry! He had asked Gladys to go down and look if there was any "goûter," as they had learnt to call this afternoon luncheon, and when she came up again and told him "no," the poor little fellow, frightened, and cold, and hungry, burst into loud sobbing. Gladys was so afraid it would be heard, and that they would be scolded for disturbing Madame Nestor, that she persuaded Roger to get into bed, where she covered him up warmly, and promised to tell him a story if he would leave off crying.
It was not easy to keep her promise—she felt so on the point of bursting into tears herself that she had to stop every now and then to clear her throat, and she was not sorry when, on one of these occasions, instead of Roger's shrill little voice urging her to "go on. What do you stop for, Gladdie?" she heard by his regular breathing that he had fallen asleep. She had no light, but she felt about to be sure he was well covered, and then, leaning her head on the side of his bed, she tried to "think."
"I would not mind anything so much if Anna was not coming back," she said to herself. "But if she is here, and poor Mrs. Nest shut up in her room, she can do anything she likes to us, for Mr. 'Dolph wouldn't know; and if I told him he'd think I was very naughty to bother him when his mother was ill. I think I must write to Miss Susan—at least, if Anna is very unkind, I will—unless—unless—oh, if it would but happen for Papa to come to-morrow, or a letter! I'll wait till to-morrow and see—and perhaps Anna won't come back, not—not if Papa's in the train—she'd run away if she saw him, if he had Mrs. Nest's cap on, she'd"—and that was all, for before Gladys had settled what she would do, she too, as you see, had fallen asleep.
She slept some time—an hour or two—and she awoke, feeling cold and stiff, though what had awakened her she did not at first know, till again, bringing with it the remembrance of having heard it before, the sound of a voice calling her reached her ears.
"Mademoiselle—Mademoiselle Gladees," it said, "why do you not come? The dinner is all ready, and I have called you so many times." It was Françoise, tumbling up the narrow stair in the dark. Gladys heard her fumbling at the door, and called out "Françoise!" Then Roger woke and started up, trembling. "What is it—what is the matter, Gladdie?" he cried, and Gladys had to soothe and pet him, and say it was only Françoise; and Françoise in the meantime had got into the room, exclaiming at their having no light, and pulling a box of matches from her pocket, struck one, and hunted about till she found a bit of candle.
It was a rather melancholy scene that the end of candle lighted up.