wasn't a baby," I said. "She's nine years old, he said she was – didn't he, mamma?"
"You are mixing two things together," said mamma. "Mr. Cranston was speaking first of his daughter long ago when she was a child, and then he was speaking of her daughter, little Myra Raby, who is now nine years old."
"Why did he say my 'poor' daughter?" I asked.
"Did you not hear the allusion to her death? Mrs. Raby died soon after little Myra was born. Mr. Raby married again – he is a clergyman not very far from Fernley – "
"A clergyman," exclaimed Haddie. He was more worldly-wise than I, thanks to being at school. "A clergyman, and he married a shopkeeper's daughter."
"There are very different kinds of shopkeepers, Haddie," said mamma. "Mr. Cranston is very rich, and his daughter was very well educated and very nice. Still, no doubt Mr. Raby was in a higher position than she, and both Mr. Cranston and his wife are very right-minded people, and never pretend to be more than they are. That is why I was so glad to hear that little Myra is coming to stay with them. I was afraid the second Mrs. Raby might have looked down upon them perhaps."
Haddie said no more about it. And though I listened to what mamma said, I don't think I quite took in the sense of it till a good while afterwards. It has often been like that with me in life. I have a curiously "retentive" memory, as it is called. Words and speeches remain in my mind like unread letters, till some day, quite unexpectedly, something reminds me of them, and I take them out, as it were, and find what they really meant.
But just now my only interest in little Myra Raby's history was a present one.
"Mamma," I said suddenly, "if she is a nice little girl like what her mamma was, mightn't I have her to come and see me and play with me? I have never had any little girl to play with, and it is so dull sometimes – the days that Haddie is late at school and when you are busy. Do say I may have her – I'm sure old Mr. Cranston would let her come, and then I might go and play with her sometimes perhaps. Do you think she will play among the furniture – where the lions are?"
Mamma shook her head.
"No, dear," she answered. "I am quite sure her grandmother would not like that. For you see anybody might come into the shop or show-rooms, and it would not seem nice for a little girl to be playing there – not nice for a carefully brought-up little girl, I mean."
"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 buttoning, or pretending to button, the band of the little brown holland apron 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."
I kissed her and I promised I would try to do as she wished. But it was with rather a heavy heart that I went to my practising. What could it be? I did try not to think of it, but it would keep coming back into my mind. And I was only a child. I had no experience of trouble or anxiety. After a time my spirits began to rise again – there was a sort of excitement in the wondering what this great matter could be. I am afraid I did not succeed in putting it out of my mind as mamma wished me to do.
But the days went on without anything particular happening. I did not speak of what mamma had said to me to my brother. I knew she did not wish me to do so. And by degrees other things began to make me forget about it a little. It was just at that time, I remember, that some friend – an aunt on father's side, I think – sent me a present of The Wide, Wide World, and while I was reading it I seemed actually to live in the story. It was curious that I should
