One thing did strike me, and that was the number of young men and boys who came, not only to inquire, but to bring offerings of all sorts. It seemed to me that every male being under thirty that I had ever seen in Redmarley, man or boy, or hobbledehoy, came to get news of Mrs. Cushion—and I was always careful to ask their names and write them down, for I soon discovered that their solicitude gave her pleasure. It was the only thing that did seem to give her pleasure just then. When the cough was easier and her temperature went down, she remained heartrendingly weak, and at the end of six days the doctor asked me if I thought "she had anything on her mind," for, if so, it must be got at and lifted; for she’d never get well at this rate. Now that she was, of necessity, rather dependent on me in a good many small ways, Mrs. Cushion had become less reserved, more like her former self, in fact—but yet, I always felt that there was something between us. Her blue eyes, sometimes without the spectacles now, would follow me about with a wistful, weighing expression that was full of dumb pain and pathos; but naturally all exciting topics were taboo, and I had never again, since that first afternoon, referred to Mrs. Robinson and her disturbing revelations. One evening about nine o’clock, when Mrs. Cushion had been in bed eight whole days, when the nurse had gone for the night, and I was left in charge, when I had made up her fire, lit the night-light, and arranged the hand-bell and all her possible wants on a table by her bed—I was going back to mine, but she stopped me as I reached the door with a faintly whispered "Miss!" I went back to the side of the bed and looked down at her. She was very pale, and had put on the spectacles as though to see me better in the dim light. "Miss," she repeated, "I can’t kip it to myself no longer; that there Mrs. Robinson was right—I wasn’t never married an’ I never ’ad no children." Mrs. Cushion’s hands were picking nervously at the sheet, though her eyes never left my face for a single minute. I seized one of the weak, cold hands, and held it in both mine—but I could not speak. "You’d better sit down, miss, while I tell ’ee.... All my life long I’ve loved children—more especially boys. When I was a young ’ooman, I ’ad my chanst same as most. One was a school-teacher, most respectable ’e were—but I couldn’t seem to fancy ’im: and t’other, ’e were a hundertaker, and I couldn’t fancy ’is trade—so there it was. An’ as time went on I did get thinkin’ about the little boys as I should like to ’ave ’ad; and they did seem to get realler and realler—Arty and Bert did—till I sorter felt I _couldn’t_ get along without ’em.... Do it seem very queer to you, miss?" "Not a bit, dear Mrs. Cushion." "Now, I ast you, miss—do I look like a hold maid, or do I look like a comfortable married woman with a family?" "I think you look _very_ married," I exclaimed quite truthfully—"very motherly."