My Pretty Sister 



to find the poor widow still in suspense 

 and longing for some word or sign. Weeks 

 and weeks went by, and we had so often 

 to say, '* No, dear, not yet," that at last 

 she gave up asking, merely looking at us 

 with eyes of wistful inquiry. Mary was 

 her willing and loving nurse and slave, 

 always bright, patient, and gentle, and with 

 no sign in face or manner of the grief that 

 was wearing out her heart. My Mother, 

 after her housework was over, would sit 

 and tell her little bits of neighbours' gossip, 

 scraps of news of the folks (often very 

 distinguished personages), who came on 

 the coach from London with my Father, and 

 the girl lay and listened quietly enough, 

 but ever when the door opened to admit 

 another, her face flushed, and her eyes 

 turned and craved for the news which was 

 so long coming. As soon as ever my 

 Father came off his coach, he would pull off 

 his heavy boots and in stocking feet would 

 come up the stairs to her room. ''Well 

 my pretty, well my sweetheart," he always 

 began cheerily enough, and then some- 

 times broke down at the sight of her face, 

 or the sound of the merciless cough, and 

 left the room hastily ; sometimes he came 

 to the bedside, and stroked his big, gentle 

 hand over her bright hair, striving to speak 

 i66 



