Part 34 (2/2)

”Then I know what I'll do,” said Marjorie. ”I'll go straight away this minute to Miss Nelson, and ask her if _I_ may go and see Susy. I dare say she'll let me--I'll try what I can do, anyhow. You run down and tell Mrs. Collins, Hudson. I'm not Ermie, but I dare say Susy would rather see me than no one.”

Miss Nelson was writing letters in her own room, when Marjorie with a flushed eager face burst in upon her. She made her request with great earnestness. Miss Nelson listened anxiously.

”I will see Mrs. Collins,” she said at last. The poor woman was brought up to the governess's room, and at sight of her evident grief Miss Nelson at once saw that she must act on her own independent judgment, and explain matters by and by to Mr. Wilton.

”Ermengarde is away,” she said to Mrs. Collins, ”but if the case is really serious, she can be sent for, and in the meantime I will take Marjorie myself to the cottage, and if your little girl wishes to see her, she can do so. Fetch your hat, Marjorie, dear, and a warm wrap, for the dews are heavy to-night.”

Marjorie was not long in getting herself ready, and twenty minutes later the poor anxious mother and her two visitors found themselves in the cottage.

”Look here, Mrs. Collins,” said Marjorie, the moment they entered the house. ”I want you not to tell Susy I have come. I'd like to slip upstairs very gently, and just see if I can do anything for her. I'll promise to be awfully quiet, and not to do her a sc.r.a.p of harm.”

Mrs. Collins hesitated for a moment. Marjorie was not the Miss Wilton Susy was asking for, and she feared exciting the poor refractory little girl by not carrying out her wishes exactly. But as Susy's tired feverish voice was distinctly heard in the upper room, and as Miss Nelson said, ”I think you can fully trust Marjorie; she is a most tender little nurse,” Mrs. Collins yielded.

”You must do as you think best, miss,” she said.

Marjorie did not wait for another word. She ran lightly up the narrow stairs, and entered the room where the sick child was sitting up in bed.

”Is that you, Miss Ermie?” said Susy. ”I thought you were never coming--never. I thought you had forsook me, just when I am so bad, and like to die.”

”It's me, Susy,” said Marjorie, coming forward. ”Ermengarde's away, so I came.”

”Oh, I don't want you, Miss Marjorie,” said Susan.

She flung herself back on the bed, and taking up the sheet threw it over her face. Marjorie went up to the bedside.

”There ain't a bit of use in your staying, Miss Marjorie,” continued Susy, in a high-pitched, excited voice. ”You don't know nothing 'bout me and the picture. You ain't no good at all.”

Marjorie's heart gave a great bound. The picture! That must surely mean the broken miniature. ”Basil, dear Basil,” whispered the little girl, ”you may not have to live down all the horrid, wicked, cruel suspicion after all.”

”I wish you'd go away, Miss Marjorie,” said Susy from under the bedclothes. ”I tell you miss, you can't do me one bit of good. You don't know nothing about me and the picture.”

”But I can hold your hand, Susy,” said Marjorie; ”and if your hand is hot, mine is lovely and cool. If you're restless, let me hold your hand. I often do so to baby if he can't sleep, and it quiets him ever so.”

Susy did not respond for a minute or two, but presently her poor little hot hand was pushed out from under the bedclothes. Marjorie grasped it firmly. Then she took the other hand, and softly rubbed the hot, dry fingers. Susy opened her burning eyes, flung aside the sheet, and looked at her quiet little visitor.

”You comfort me a bit, miss,” she said. ”I don't feel so mad with restlessness as I did when you came in.”

”That's because I have got soothing hands,” said Marjorie. ”Some people have, and I suppose I'm one. The children at home always go to sleep when I hold their hands. Don't you think you could shut your eyes and try to go to sleep now, Susy?”

”Oh, miss, there's a weight on my mind. You can't sleep when you're ill and like to die, and there's a weight pressing down on you.”

”I don't believe you'll die, Susy; and if you've a weight on your mind, you can tell G.o.d about it, you know.”

”No, miss, G.o.d's awful angry with me.”

”He's never angry with us, if we are sorry about things,” answered Marjorie. ”He's our Father, and fathers always forgive their children when they are sorry. If you are sorry, Susy, you can tell G.o.d, your Father, and he'll be sure to forgive you at once.”

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