"Not just now, by-and-bye," she replied, hardly thinking of what she was saying, and trying only to quiet her; and Emmie, satisfied with this vague permission, nestled against her sister contentedly, and said no more.
CHAPTER XIV.
"EMMIE'S LETTER."
"I cannot take that anguish'd look to wear
On my calm heart in heaven, as my last,
Last memory of thee until we meet.
Nay, thou must smile on me; one little smile
Cast like a wild-flower on my misty way
Will make it brighter, and I cannot go
In peace until thou bless me."
'Ezekiel and other Poems.'
Emmie's closing remarks that night had left no distinct impression on her sister's mind; but Queenie had little idea of the tenacity with which the child brooded over the matter, or how the weary young brain confused itself with endless plans and plotting. That some one must take care of Queenie, that was her one thought.
And so one morning, when Queenie had softly crept out of her room, thinking Emmie's closed eyelids betokened sleep, and had started for her fresh morning walk, the child painfully and slowly dragged herself from her bed, and with failing breath, and hands that trembled over their task, penned the pitiful little letter that wrung Garth's heart as he read it.
Queenie found her on her return lying wan and exhausted on her pillow, and bent over her with undisguised anxiety.
"Where is Harriet, darling? She ought not to have neglected you in this way," she exclaimed in distress, putting back the curls from the child's damp forehead.
Emmie only closed her eyes in answer, but an odd little smile hovered round her lips. She knew that Harriet was that moment walking down the Esplanade, towards the red pillar-box on the green.
And this was the letter that Garth read and handed to Langley with undisguised emotion, and over which Langley cried until her feeble strength was nearly exhausted.