Girls of the True Blue. Meade L. T.

here, Nancy,” said Mrs. Richmond. “I have something I want to say to you.”

      “But I don’t want to listen,” answered Nan; and she clutched her doll tightly in her embrace, staggered to her feet, and stood, with defiance in her eyes, a few feet away from Mrs. Richmond.

      “Dear, dear! she is an extraordinary child,” thought the good lady. “She will be very difficult to manage. I should not be a scrap surprised if she felt this very much; some children do, and I should not be astonished if she was the sort, she is so stubborn and self-contained – not a pleasant child by any means. But Amy’s little girl shall always have a warm corner in my heart – always, always.”

      “Come here, Nan,” she said again.

      “If you want to say anything to me, please, Mrs. Richmond, be quick,” said Nan, who was now wide awake and felt absolutely composed; “I must go up to mother. This is the hour for her tea; I always make it myself for her. I know just how much she wants put into the little brown teapot, and the right quantity of milk and sugar; and, oh! I am going to toast her bread for her, for Mrs. Vincent does send it up so hard and untempting. Perhaps you will come another day, Mrs. Richmond, and talk to me then.”

      “I must talk to you now, Nancy, my poor little girl; I have something to say.”

      Curious emotions stirred in the child’s breast. She stood quite still for a moment; then she said slowly:

      “You had better not say it.”

      “I must; it is about your mother.”

      “What! is mother worse?”

      “She is better, Nancy.” Mrs. Richmond’s eyes brimmed over with tears.

      “Then how silly of you to cry!” said the child, her face brightening up, and smiles dawning round her lips. “If she was worse you might cry – not that you ought ever to cry, for she is no relation of yours; but if she is better, Sophia Maria and I will sing.”

      “Nancy dear, I cannot break it to you. I must tell it to you at once, and God help you to bear it. Your mother is better in one sense – in the sense that God has taken her away from all her pains. She won’t ever be tired or ill or sorry any more, and she will never again have aches or wakeful nights or sad days; she has gone to God. There is a beautiful heaven, you know, Nan, and – Oh, good gracious! what ails the child?”

      Nan had given one smothered scream and had rushed from the room. Fast – very fast – did the little feet run upstairs. Mrs. Esterleigh’s room was on the third floor. Past the drawing-room landing she ran, where a good-natured-looking old gentleman resided. He was coming out of his comfortable drawing-room, and he saw the scared little face. He knew, of course, what had happened, and he wondered if the child knew. He called to her:

      “Nancy, come in and sit by my fire for a little.”

      But she did not heed him. She ran past the second floor; no one called her here or detained her. There was a very cross old maid who lived on that floor, and Nancy had always hated her. She ran on and on. Presently she reached her mother’s room.

      “It is not true,” she gasped. “It is that dreadful Mrs. Richmond trying to frighten me. It is not a bit true – not a bit.” And then she took the handle and tried to turn it and to open the door, but the door was locked.

      “Mother, mother!” she shrieked. “Mother, it is me – it is Nan. Don’t let them keep me out. Get some one to open the door. Mother, mother!”

      Footsteps sounded in the room, and an elderly woman, whom Nancy had never seen before, opened the door, came quickly out, and stood with her back to it.

      “You must go away, my dear little girl,” she said. “I will bring you to see your mother presently. Go away now, dear; you cannot come in.”

      “But I will. You shall not keep me out. You are hurting mother. You have no right to be in the room with her;” and Nancy pommelled at the woman’s hands and arms. But she was strong and masterful, and presently she picked up the exhausted child and carried her right downstairs.

      “Oh! give her to me,” said Mrs. Richmond. “Poor little child! Nancy dear, I am so sorry for you! And I promise, darling, to be a mother to you.”

      “Don’t!” said Nan. “I don’t want you as a mother – no, I don’t want you.”

      “Never mind, I will be a friend to you – an aunt – anything you like. I have promised your own dear mother; and she is quite well, and it would be selfish to wish her back.”

      “But I want to be selfish; I want to have her back,” said Nan. “I don’t believe that God has come and taken her. He would not take mother and leave me; it is not likely, is it?”

      “God sometimes does so, and He has His wise reasons.”

      “I don’t believe it. You only want me not to go to her, and you are telling me lies.”

      “It is the truth, Nancy; and I wish for your sake it were not. Will you come back with me to-night, dear?”

      “I won’t. I won’t ever go to you. I will always stay just outside mother’s door until they let me in. I do not believe she is dead – no, not for a moment.”

      In vain Mrs. Richmond argued and pleaded and coaxed; Nan was firm. Presently the good lady had to consult with Mrs. Vincent, who promised to look after the child. The landlady was now all tears and good-nature, and she assured Mrs. Richmond that Nan should have all her wants attended to.

      “I have got a very nice, good-natured servant-girl,” she said. “Her name is Phoebe. I will send her upstairs, and she shall sit in the room with Miss Nan, and if necessary stay with her to-night.”

      “Very well,” said Mrs. Richmond. “It is the best that I can do; but, oh dear! how anxious I feel about the unhappy child!”

      CHAPTER III. – THE FROCK WITH CRAPE

      All the lodgers in the house, the landlady, and the servants were extremely kind to Nan that night; but Nan would have none of them. Presently Phoebe was sent to sit in the parlour with her. The lamp, which usually smoked, burned brightly, and there was quite a good fire in the grate – of late it had been a miserable one – and the curtains were drawn, and a clean cloth had been put on the table, and Nan was treated as if she were a princess. Phoebe, too, dressed in her Sunday best, came and sat with her. Phoebe was sixteen years of age; she had left her country home about two months ago, and felt now wonderfully important. She took a sorrowful, keen, and at the same time pleasurable interest in Nan. She put the bowl of bread and milk, which Mrs. Vincent considered the best solace for grief, inside the fender to keep warm, and then she sat on a hard-bottomed chair, very erect, with her hands folded in her lap. For a long time her eyes sought the ground, but then curiosity got the better of her. She began to watch Nan. Nan sat with her back to her. Sophia Maria was lying on the table near. As a rule this battered and disreputable doll was clutched tight in her little mistress’s embrace, but even the doll could not comfort Nan now. Phoebe gave a groan.

      “What are you doing that for?” said the child. She raised her eyes; there came a frown between her brows; she looked full at Phoebe.

      “I am so sorrowful about you, missy!” replied Phoebe.

      There was something in Phoebe’s hearty tone that interested Nan. She hated Mrs. Richmond and Mrs. Vincent when they expressed their grief; even the dear old gentleman, Mr. Pryor, on the first floor was intolerable to her to-night. As to Miss Edgar, the old maid who lived on the second floor, Nan would have fled any distance from her; but there was something about Phoebe’s country tone, and her round face, and the tears which filled her blue eyes which touched Nan in spite of herself.

      “I wish you would eat your supper, miss,” was Phoebe’s next remark.

      Nan shook her head. After a time she spoke.

      “If your mother had just gone to heaven, would you eat a big bowl of bread and milk?”

      “Oh, lor’, miss! I don’t know.”

      “Has