The wide, old-fashioned sofa was drawn close
to an open window, that she might feel the soft, cool air on her cheeks,
and sniff the fragrance of the mignonette that filled the beds outside.
It was a very thin face that lay upon the soft down pillow, but a slight
tinge of pink on her cheeks told of returning health. Her abundant black
tresses had been ruthlessly shorn away, and tiny curls clustered around
forehead and neck; her eyes, dark as sloes, were large and thoughtful.
Two days before she had been removed from the great London hospital, and
brought by Miss Vandaleur to her father's country-home, where the
kindliest of white-haired house-keepers watched over her beloved Miss
Bee's _protegee_, tending her with gentlest care.
"Good-morning, Eily;" Miss Vandaleur, in a simple morning gown of white,
entered the room.
Eily struggled to her feet. "Good-morning, miss, your honour!"
Bee laughed good-naturedly; it was funny to hear herself addressed by
such a title.
"Now lie still, Eily, you are not quite strong yet. Tell me, are you
happy here?"
"Happy! Arrah, it's like heaven, miss; my blessin' and the blessin' of
God on ye for all your kindness to a poor girl. Shure, but for yourself
I would have been in me grave this day."
[Sidenote: "Is there no one else?"]
"I am glad you are happy, Eily; but is there no one you would like to
see, no one from home, I mean? Just say the word; perhaps I can manage
it," she said slyly.
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