"My dear, you must be a good young lady and take some tea. We all have
our troubles, but a good heart goes a long way."
Her pitying face broke me down. How sadly without feminine sympathy I
had been through all my troubles I had never felt as I felt it now that
it had come. I fairly dropped my head upon her shoulder and sobbed out
the apparently irrelevant remark--
"Dear madam, I have no mother!"
She understood me, and flinging her arms round me sobbed louder than I.
It would have been wicked to offer further resistance. She brought down
pillows, covered them with a red shawl, and propped me up till the
horsehair sofa became an easy couch, and with mixed tears and smiles I
contrived to swallow a few mouthfuls, a feat which she exalted to an act
of sublime virtue.
"And now, my dear," she said, "you will have some warm water and wash
your hands and face and smooth your hair, and go to sleep for a bit."
"I cannot sleep," I said.
But Mrs. Smith was not to be baffled.
"I shall give you something to make you," said she.
And so, when the warm water had done its work, I had to swallow a
sleeping-draught and be laid easily upon the sofa. Her last words as she
"tucked me up" were, oddly enough--
"The tea's brought back a bit of colour to your cheeks, miss, and I will
say you do look pretty in them beautiful sables!"
A very different thought was working in my head as the sleeping-draught
tingled through my veins.
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