“Mamma,” cried the girl, with a little start, and then, “Oh! I have waked her, Moulsey, I have waked her!”
“Is this her little hand? Poor little Bee! No, you have not waked me, love; but why, why is the child here?”
“The doctor said she might stay—to send for him if you wanted anything—and—and to satisfy her.”
“To satisfy her, why so, why so? Am I so bad? Did he think I would die—in the night?”
“No, no, no,” said Moulsey, standing by her, patting her shoulder, as if she had been a fretful child. “What a thing to fancy! As if he’d have sent the child here for that!”
“No,” said the poor lady, “he wouldn’t have sent the child, would he—not the child—for that—to frighten her! But Bee must go to bed. I’m so much better. Go to bed. Moulsey; poor Moulsey, never tires, she’s so good. But you must go to bed.”
“Oh, mother, let me stay. When you sleep, I sleep too; and I’m so much happier here.”
“Happier, are you? Well—but there was something wrong. Something had happened. What was it that happened? And your father away! It never does for anything to happen when—my husband is away. I’ve grown so silly. I never know what to do. What was it that happened, Bee?”
“There was—nothing,” said Bee, with a sudden chill of despair. She had forgotten everything but the dim bed-chamber, the faint light, the quick, quick breathing. And now there came a stab at her poor little heart. She scarcely knew what it was, but a cut like a knife going to the very centre of her being. Then there came the doctor’s words, as if they were written in light across the darkness of the room—“Ready, and steady.” She said in a stronger voice, “You have been dreaming. There was nothing, mamma.”
Mrs. Kingsward, who had raised herself on her elbow, sank back again on her pillow.