would get, and all that.

But I had heard enough. My heart seemed as if it was going to stop.
Mother going away--to have to live without mother--it didn't seem to me
so much a grief, as an impossibility. I think I was rather a babyish
child for my age in some ways. I was very fond of the boys, and I was
very unhappy if ever I was away from them, but I don't think I had ever
thought much about whether I loved anybody or not. And I know that
sometimes people said I wasn't affectionate. Things hadn't happened to
make me think about anything in any deep way. We had always lived in the
same house--even in the same rooms--and we had had our breakfasts and
dinners and teas with the same plates and cups and saucers, and mother
had always been there, just like the daylight to us. I couldn't _fancy_
being without her, and so just at first I couldn't tell if I was
dreadfully unhappy or not. I was too startled to know. But I think in
another moment I would have jumped out of bed and rushed to mother, if I
hadn't heard just then something which I quite understood, and which I
listened to with the greatest interest and curiosity.

"Yes," mother was saying, for, for a minute or two, you understand, I
hadn't been listening. "Yes, I see no better plan. It isn't as if either
you or I had had a mother or sisters to send them to. And as you say,
with Geoffrey, their _health_ will be thoroughly looked after, and he
will be very kind to them, and we can depend on his telling us the truth
about them. Anything is better than sending them to strangers."

"That's what he said," replied papa. "He was quite full of it when I
went to-day to tell him of this most unexpected proposal. He is so very
eager for me to accept it that he would do anything. His house is
large, much larger than he needs; and of course he knows more about
children than most unmarried men, through seeing them so constantly when
they are ill. And then, Marie, there is Partridge--that is a great
thing."

"Yes," said mother, gently, but not very eagerly. I knew the tone of her
voice when she spoke that way--I could feel that she was smiling a
little--she always did when she didn't want to seem to disagree with
papa and yet didn't quite agree with him, for papa always gets so eager
about things, and is sure they'll all come right. "Yes," said mother,
"I'm sure Partridge is very good and kind, but she's old, you know,
Horace. Audrey and the boys must have a young nurse, besides-