‘Baby is gone quietly to sleep,’ began Albinia in a low voice, beginning in displeasure; but as she spoke, the harshness of Sophy’s face gave way, she sank down on the floor, and fell into the most overpowering fit of weeping that Albinia had ever witnessed. Kneeling beside her, she would have drawn the girl close to her, but a sharp cry of pain startled her, and she found the right arm, from elbow to wrist, all one purple bruise, the skin grazed, and the blood starting. ‘My poor child! how you have hurt yourself!’ Sophy turned away pettishly. ‘Let me look! I am sure it must be very bad. Have you done anything to it?’ ‘No, never mind. Go back to baby.’ ‘Baby does not want me. You shall come and see how comfortably he is asleep, if you will leave off crying, and let me see that poor arm. Did you hurt it in the fall?’ ‘The corner of the wall,’ said Sophy. ‘Oh! did it not hurt him?’ but then, just as it seemed that she was sinking on that kind breast in exhaustion, she collected herself, and pushing Albinia off, exclaimed, ‘I did it, I took him out, I fell down with him, I hurt his head, I’ve killed him, or made him an idiot for life. I did.’ ‘Who said so?’ cried Albinia, transfixed. ‘Aunt Maria said so. She said I did not feel. Oh, if I could only die before he grows up to let one see it. Why wont you begin to hate me?’ ‘My dear,’ said Albinia, consoled on hearing the authority, ‘people often say angry things when they are shocked. Your aunt had not seen Mr. Bowles, and we all think he was not in the least hurt, only terribly frightened. Dear, dear child, I am more distressed for you than for him!’