Part 3 (1/2)

”Then I don't think I should care to go to her house,” I said, ”but I would like her to come here. Please let her, mamma dear.”

But mamma only said,

”We shall see.”

After tea she told us stories--some of them we had heard often before, but we never tired of hearing them again--about when she and Aunty Etta were little girls. They were lovely stories--real ones of course. Mamma was not as clever as Aunty Etta about making up fairy ones.

We were quite sorry when it was time to go to bed.

After I had been asleep for a little that night I woke up again--I had not been very sound asleep. Just then I saw a light, and mamma came into the room with a candle.

”I'm not asleep, dear mamma,” I said. ”Do kiss me again.”

”That is what I have come for,” she answered.

And she came up to the bedside and kissed me, oh so sweetly--more than once. She seemed as if she did not want to let go of me.

”Dear mamma,” I whispered sleepily, ”I _am_ so happy--I'm always happy, but to-night I feel so _extra_ happy, somehow.”

”Darling,” said mamma.

And she kissed me again.

CHAPTER III.

COMING EVENTS.

The shadow of coming changes began to fall over us very soon after that.

Indeed, the very next morning at breakfast I noticed that mamma looked pale and almost as if she had been crying, and father was, so to say, ”extra” kind to her and to me. He talked and laughed more than usual, partly perhaps to prevent our noticing how silent dear mamma was, but mostly I think because that is the way men do when they are really anxious or troubled.

I don't fancy Haddie thought there was anything wrong--he was in a hurry to get off to school.

After breakfast mamma told me to go and practise for half an hour, and if she did not come to me then, I had better go on doing some of my lessons alone. She would look them over afterwards. And as I was going out of the room she called me back and kissed me again--almost as she had done the night before.

That gave me courage to say something. For children were not, in my childish days, on such free and easy terms with their elders as they are now. And kind and gentle as mamma was, we knew very distinctly the sort of things she would think forward or presuming on our part.

”Mamma,” I said, still hesitating a little.

”Well, dear,” she replied. She was b.u.t.toning, or pretending to b.u.t.ton, the band of the little brown holland ap.r.o.n I wore, so that I could not see her face, but something in the tone of her voice told me that my instinct was not mistaken.

”Mamma,” I repeated, ”may I say something? I have a feeling that--that you are--that there is something the matter.”

Mamma did not answer at once. Then she said very gently, but quite kindly,

”Geraldine, my dear, you know that I tell you as much as I think it right to tell any one as young as you--I tell you more, of our plans and private matters and such things, than most mothers tell their little daughters. This has come about partly through your being so much alone with me. But when I _don't_ tell you anything, even though you may suspect there is something to tell, you should trust me that there is good reason for my not doing so.”

”Yes,” I said, but I could not stifle a little sigh. ”Would you just tell me one thing, mamma,” I went on; ”it isn't anything that you're really unhappy about, is it?”

Again mamma hesitated.

”Dear child,” she said, ”try to put it out of your mind. I can only say this much to you, I am _anxious_ more than troubled. There is nothing the matter that should really be called a trouble. But your father and I have a question of great importance to decide just now, and we are very--I may say really _terribly_--anxious to decide for the best. That is all I can tell you. Kiss me, my darling, and try to be your own bright little self. That will be a comfort and help to me.”