Mrs. Tretherick assented.  Carry flew into the next room, and presently reappeared dragging a small trunk, into which she gravely proceeded to pack her clothes.  Mrs. Tretherick noticed that they were not many.  A question or two regarding them brought out some further replies from the child; and before many minutes had elapsed, Mrs. Tretherick was in possession of all her earlier history.  But, to do this, Mrs. Tretherick had been obliged to take Carry upon her lap, pending the most confidential disclosures.  They sat thus a long time after Mrs. Tretherick had apparently ceased to be interested in Carry’s disclosures; and when lost in thought, she allowed the child to rattle on unheeded, and ran her fingers through the scarlet curls.

“You don’t hold me right, Mamma,” said Carry at last, after one or two uneasy shiftings of position.

“How should I hold you?” asked Mrs. Tretherick with a half-amused, half-embarrassed laugh.

“Dis way,” said Carry, curling up into position, with one arm around Mrs. Tretherick’s neck and her cheek resting on her bosom—­“dis way—­dere.”  After a little preparatory nestling, not unlike some small animal, she closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

For a few moments the woman sat silent, scarcely daring to breathe in that artificial attitude.  And then, whether from some occult sympathy in the touch, or God best knows what, a sudden fancy began to thrill her.  She began by remembering an old pain that she had forgotten, an old horror that she had resolutely put away all these years.  She recalled days of sickness and distrust—­days of an overshadowing fear—­days of preparation for something that was to be prevented, that was prevented, with mortal agony and fear.  She thought of a life that might have been—­she dared not say had been—­and wondered.  It was six years ago; if it had lived, it would have been as old as Carry.  The arms which were folded loosely around the sleeping child began to tremble, and tighten their clasp.  And then the deep potential impulse came, and with a half-sob, half-sigh, she threw her arms out and drew the body of the sleeping child down, down, into her breast, down again and again as if she would hide it in the grave dug there years before.  And the gust that shook her passed, and then, ah me! the rain.

A drop or two fell upon the curls of Carry, and she moved uneasily in her sleep.  But the woman soothed her again—­it was so easy to do it now—­and they sat there quiet and undisturbed, so quiet that they might have seemed incorporate of the lonely silent house, the slowly declining sunbeams, and the general air of desertion and abandonment, yet a desertion that had in it nothing of age, decay, or despair.

Colonel Starbottle waited at the Fiddletown Hotel all that night in vain.  And the next morning, when Mr. Tretherick returned to his husks, he found the house vacant and untenanted, except by motes and sunbeams.