“Is the child ill?” asked Valentine anxiously. “She’s such a picturesque little creature, Lavvie! I long to paint her.”
“I’m afraid, sir, she’s not fit to be put into a picter now,” said Mrs. Peckover. “Mrs. Joyce is in sad trouble about her, because of one of her shoulders which has growed out somehow. The doctor at Rubbleford don’t doubt but what it may be got right again; but he said she ought to be shown to some great London doctor as soon as possible. So, neither her papa nor her mamma being able to take her up to her aunt’s house, they trusted her to me. As you know, sir, ever since Doctor Joyce got my husband that situation at Rubbleford, I’ve been about the Rectory, helping with the children and the housekeeping, and all that:—and Miss Lucy being used to me, we come along together in the railroad quite pleasant and comfortable. I was glad enough, you may be sure, of the chance of getting here, after not having seen little Mary for so long. So I just left Miss Lucy at her aunt’s, where they were very kind, and wanted me to stop all night. But I told them that, thanks to your goodness, I always had a bed here when I was in London; and I took the cab on, after seeing the little girl safe and comfortable up-stairs. That’s the whole story of how I come to surprise you in this way, ma’am,—and now I’ll finish my tea.”
Having got to the bottom of her cup, and to the end of a muffin amorously presented to her by the incorrigible Zack, Mrs. Peckover had leisure to turn again to Madonna; who, having relieved her of her bonnet and shawl, was now sitting close at her side.
“I didn’t think she was looking quite so well as usual, when I first come in,” said Mrs. Peckover, patting the girl’s cheek with her chubby fingers; “but she seems to have brightened up again now.” (This was true: the sad stillness had left Madonna’s face, at sight of the friend and mother of her early days.) “Perhaps she’s been sticking a little too close to her drawing lately—”
“By the bye, talking of drawings, what’s become of my drawing?” cried Zack, suddenly recalled for the first time to the remembrance of Madonna’s gift.
“Dear me!” pursued Mrs. Peckover, looking towards the three drawing-boards, which had been placed together round the pedestal of the cast; “are all those little Mary’s doings? She’s cleverer at it, I suppose, by this time, than ever. Ah, Lord! what an old woman I feel, when I think of the many years ago—”
“Come and look at what she has done to-night,” interrupted Valentine, taking Mrs. Peckover by the arm, and pressing it very significantly as he glanced at the part of the table where young Thorpe was sitting.
“My drawing—where’s my drawing?” repeated Zack. “Who put it away when tea came in? Oh, there it is, all safe on the book case.”
“I congratulate you, sir, on having succeeded at last in remembering that there is such a thing in the world as Madonna’s present,” said Mrs. Blyth sarcastically.
Zack looked up bewildered from his tea, and asked directly what those words meant.