Part 18 (1/2)

”Are you going to sleep, Geraldine?”

This brought me back to the present.

”Oh no,” I said, ”I'm not sleepy. I was only thinking,” and I told her what had come into my mind.

She listened with great interest.

”How unhappy you must have been when your mamma went away,” she said. ”I can't remember my own mamma, but mother”--she meant her stepmother--”is so kind, and granny is so sweet. I've never been lonely.”

”You can't fancy what it's like,” I said. ”It wasn't only mamma's going away; I know Haddie--that's my brother--loves her as much as I do, but he's not very unhappy, because he likes his school. Oh, Myra, what _shall_ I do when I have to go back to school? I'd rather be ill always.

Do you think I'll have to go back to-morrow?”

Myra looked most sympathising and concerned.

”I don't think you'll be quite well to-morrow,” was the best comfort she could give me. ”When I have bad colds and sore throats they always last longer than one day.”

”I'd like to talk a great lot to keep my throat from getting quite well,” I said, ”but I suppose that would be very naughty.”

”Yes,” said Myra with conviction, ”I'm sure it would be. You really mustn't talk, Geraldine; granny said so. Mayn't I read aloud to you?

I've brought a book with me--it's an old story-book of mamma's that she had when she was a little girl. Granny keeps them here all together.

This one is called _Ornaments Discovered_.”

”Thank you,” I said. ”Yes, I should like it very much.”

And in her gentle little voice Myra read the quaint old story aloud to me. It was old-fas.h.i.+oned even then, for the book had belonged to her mother, if not in the first place to her grandmother. How very old-world it would seem to the children of to-day--I wonder if any of you know it?

For I am growing quite an old woman myself, and the little history of my childhood that I am telling you will, before long, be half a century in age, though its events seem as clear and distinct to me as if they had only happened quite recently! I came across the little red gilt-leaved book not long ago in the house of one of Myra's daughters, and with the sight of it a whole flood of memories rushed over me.

It was not a very exciting story, but I found it very interesting, and now and then my little friend stopped to talk about it, which I found very interesting too. I was quite sorry when Miss Fenmore, who had come back to the room and was sitting quietly sewing, told Myra that she thought she had read enough, and that it must be near dinner-time.

”I will come again after dinner,” said Myra, and then I whispered something to her. She nodded; she quite understood me. What I said was this:

”I wish you would go downstairs and tell the carved lions that they made me very happy last night, and I _am_ so glad they brought me back here to you, instead of taking me to Green Bank.”

”Where did they take you to in the night?” said Myra with great interest, though not at all as if she thought I was talking nonsense.

”I'll tell you all about it afterwards,” I said. ”It was beautiful. But it would take a long time to tell, and I'm rather tired.”

”You are looking tired, dear,” said Miss Fenmore, who heard my last words, as she gave me a cupful of beef-tea. ”Try to go to sleep for a little, and then Myra can come to sit with you again.”

I did go to sleep, but Myra was not allowed to see me again that day, nor the next--nor for several days after, except for a very few minutes at a time. For I did not improve as the kind people about me had hoped I would, and Dr. Fallis looked graver when he came that evening than he had done in the morning. Miss Fenmore was afraid she had let me talk too much, but after all I do not think anything would have made any great difference. I had really been falling out of health for months past, and I should probably have got ill in some other way if I had not caught cold in my wanderings. I do not very clearly remember those days of serious illness. I knew whenever I was awake that I was being tenderly cared for, and in the half-dozing, half-dreaming state in which many hours must have been pa.s.sed, I fancied more than once that mamma was beside me, which made me very happy. And though never actually delirious, I had very strange though not unpleasant dreams, especially about the carved lions; none of them, however, so clear and real as the one I related at full in the last chapter.

On the whole, that illness left more peaceful and sweet memories than memories of pain. Through it all I had the delightful feeling of being cared for and protected, and somehow it all seemed to have to do with the pair of lions downstairs in Mr. Cranston's show-room!

CHAPTER XII.

GOOD NEWS.

I don't suppose there was anything really infectious about my illness, though nowadays whenever there is any sort of sore throat people are very much on their guard. Perhaps they were not so cautious long ago.