“That’s what I should like,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “it’s strange, isn’t it? The bed’s solid, and the house is solid, and Moulsey there, she’s very solid too, and air isn’t solid at all. But there never was anybody that lay so easy and looked so safe as that woman in the air. Their arms must be so soft under her, and yet so strong, you know; stronger than your father’s. He’s so kind, but he hurries me sometimes; and soft--you’re soft, Bee, but you’re not strong. You’ve got a soft little hand, hasn’t she, Moulsey? Poor little thing! And to think one doesn’t know what she may have to do with it before she is like me.” “She’ll have no more to do with it, ma’am, than a lady should, no more than you’ve had. But you must be quiet, dear lady, and try and go to sleep.” “I might never have such a good chance of talking to her again. The middle of the night and nobody here--her father not even in the house. Bee, you must try never to begin being ill in any silly way, feeling not strong and that sort of foolish thing, and say out what you think. Don’t be frightened. It’s--it’s bad for him as well as for you. He gets to think you haven’t any opinion. And then all at once they find out--And, perhaps, it’s too late--.” “Mamma, you’re not very ill? Oh, no; you’re looking so beautiful, and you talk just as you always did.” “She says am I very ill, Moulsey? Poor little Bee! I feel a great deal better. I had surely a nice sleep. But why should the doctor be here, and you made to sit up, you poor little thing. Moulsey, why is the doctor here?” “I never said, ma’am, as he was here. He’s coming round first thing in the morning. He’s anxious--because the Colonel’s away.” “Ah! you think I don’t know. I’m not so very bad; but he thinks--he thinks--perhaps I might die, Bee.” “Mamma, mamma!” “Don’t be frightened,” said Mrs. Kingsward, drawing the girl close to her. “That’s a secret; he doesn’t think I know. It would be a curious, curious thing, when people think you are only ill to go and die. It would surprise them so. And so strange altogether--instead of worries, you know, every day, to be all by yourself, lying so easy and the angels carrying you. No trouble at all then to think whether he would be pleased--or anything; giving yourself to be carried like that, like a little child.” “But mamma,” cried Bee, “you could not, would not leave us--you wouldn’t, would you, mamma?--all the children, and me; and I with nobody else, no one to care for me. You couldn’t, mother, leave us; you wouldn’t! Say you wouldn’t! Oh! Moulsey! Moulsey! look how far away she is looking, as if she didn’t see you and me!”