Here lay the difficulty. While Mrs. Austin thanked Jane Gresham for her advice, and eagerly grasped at the hope held out by it, she asked herself, "Where shall I find the child who will be alike a suitable playfellow for Margery and a fitting successor to my lost darling?"
The poorest mothers are not often willing to part with a child; they may moan over days of toil and nights of unrest; they may talk of being borne down by family cares and anxieties; they may sorrowfully count the many mouths that are to be fed, and note the disparity between these and the food that is theirs to divide; but should Death snatch away a member of the noisy flock, he always takes the wrong one. If there is an offer from friend or kinsman to provide for a child, the mother sees nothing but merits in her darlings, and knows not which to yield, even though convinced that the change would be all gain to her little one.
What Mrs. Austin wanted was not a mere baby from a poor, overcrowded home, but some child of gentle birth and nurture, who would be given up to her keeping, and be Margery's sister in all but actual kindred. She returned to Monks Lea, wondering what must be done, and rendered more than ever, eager to carry out her plan by the sight of Margery's pale face and languid step, as she met her in the hall.
"If I do anything it must be at once," she thought, "or the remedy will come too late; but I will have a talk with Barbara before I take any steps in the matter."
And Mrs. Austin went to the nursery, where she felt sure of finding her faithful servant and humble friend, Barbara Molesworth.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE nurse rose from her seat as her mistress entered and at once laid down the needlework with which she was busied. Then she drew Mrs. Austin's favourite chair towards the fireside, and standing near it, waited for what was to follow.
Barbara Molesworth was a striking-looking woman of forty, tall of stature, and with a face which invited confidence by its combined expression of truth, firmness, common sense and kindness.
It would have been impossible to look into Barbara's fine honest grey eyes and doubt her trustworthiness. At that moment they were turned upon her mistress with a tender anxiety that was most touching to behold.
Mistress and maid were nearly of an age, and had known each other all their lives. When Miss Carrington, the banker's daughter, became the wife of Captain, afterwards Colonel Austin, she would have no personal attendant but the village girl she knew and could trust.