“We will stay where we are, Daisy, until you wish to leave.”
Then the poor little thin face relaxed into a wan smile, the lids drooped over the tired blue eyes, and the child slept more peacefully.
When Primrose felt her head, however, it was feverish, and her little hands burned to the touch. She went into the next room and called Jasmine.
“Jasmine,” she said, “I am going round to Mrs. Egerton’s; I am going to tell her all about Daisy’s alarm and terror. I am going to consult her, for I know she means to be a good friend to us. Jasmine, promise me one thing—don’t leave Daisy alone while I am out. I cannot in the least understand how it happened, but I feel sure she must have got some fright when you were out last night.”
“Oh, she couldn’t have,” answered Jasmine—“I locked the door after me. I never leave Daisy alone without locking the door. I won’t leave her now, of course, Primrose—I will take my little writing table close to her bedside, and if she wakes I can read her a part of my novel.”
Primrose gave one or two more directions, and then hurried out, and Jasmine, after she had washed up the breakfast things, and put the little sitting-room perfectly tidy, moved her small writing-table into the bedroom, and sat down by Daisy’s side. She was in the scribbling stage of her great work, and with her head bent low, her cheeks flushed, and her fingers much stained with ink, was writing away with great rapidity, when she was startled by some very earnest words from the little sleeper.
“Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Dove—oh no, you may be quite certain. I know where I’d go if I told a lie, of course, Mr. Dove. Yes, yes, you are my friend, and I’m your friend—yes, yes.”
“Daisy, do wake up,” said Jasmine; “you are talking such rubbish about Mr. Dove, and about telling lies, and Mr. Dove being your friend—open your eyes, Daisy, and let me give you such a nice little breakfast.”
“Is that you, Jasmine?” said Daisy—“I thought you were Mr. Dove—I was asleep, and I was dreaming.”
“Yes, Eyebright, and talking in your dreams,” said Jasmine, stooping down and kissing her.
Daisy held one of Jasmine’s hands very tightly.
“Did I say anything, Jasmine—anything that you shouldn’t hear—anything about—about sticky sweetmeats, Jasmine?”
“No, you silly pet, not a word. Now sit up in bed, and let me give you your breakfast. Daisy, I really do think my novel is going to be a great success. I am going to put Mr. Dove into it, and Mrs. Dove, and Tommy Dove, and our dear old Poppy, and of course ourselves. One reason why I feel so confident that the novel will be a success is that all the characters will be sketched from the life.”