She's been very ill, ma'am,--very ill indeed, and
though she's getting better it would be a great comfort to her to see
me, and maybe spirit her up a bit to get well quicker. So I'm just
setting off--I've locked up my cottage and left the key next door. But I
couldn't start without looking in again to see if maybe you had any
news."
"No, no--nothing," replied Grandmamma. "And I feel as if I couldn't bear
much more. I am breaking up, Barbara; a few days more will see the last
of me, my old friend, if they bring no tidings."
Barbara's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.--She had
exhausted all her attempts at comfort, all her "perhaps"'s, and
"maybe"'s as to what had become of the children; and though she was a
very cheerful and hopeful old woman, she was also very sympathising, and
it made her dreadfully sad to see Grandmamma so changed and cast down.
"It goes to my heart, ma'am, to see you so," she got out at last. "I
know there's nothing I can do, but all the same I wish I weren't going
away just now, though the few days will soon be past."
"Yes," said Grandmamma, "they will certainly; and yet even two days seem
an eternity just now. You see how foolish and weak I am growing,
Barbara. I want every day to be over, and yet I cannot bear to have the
days pass and to say to myself that the chances of any tidings are
lessening and lessening.
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