“Me, young ladies?” she returned with surprise.  “Hush!  Jenny, Jenny!”

The mother had moaned in her sleep and moved.  The sound of the familiar voice seemed to calm her again.  She was quiet once more.

How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look upon the tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine around the child through Ada’s drooping hair as her pity bent her head—­ how little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would come to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast!  I only thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave, and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner, “Jenny, Jenny!”

CHAPTER IX

Signs and Tokens

I don’t know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself.  I mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, “Dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn’t!” but it is all of no use.  I hope any one who may read what I write will understand that if these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it must be because I have really something to do with them and can’t be kept out.

My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, and found so much employment for our time that the winter days flew by us like bright-winged birds.  Generally in the afternoons, and always in the evenings, Richard gave us his company.  Although he was one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of our society.

He was very, very, very fond of Ada.  I mean it, and I had better say it at once.  I had never seen any young people falling in love before, but I found them out quite soon.  I could not say so, of course, or show that I knew anything about it.  On the contrary, I was so demure and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes I considered within myself while I was sitting at work whether I was not growing quite deceitful.

But there was no help for it.  All I had to do was to be quiet, and I was as quiet as a mouse.  They were as quiet as mice too, so far as any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which they relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing how it interested me.

“Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman,” Richard would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, “that I can’t get on without her.  Before I begin my harum-scarum day—­ grinding away at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman—­it does me so much good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again!”