Dyce nodded over to her couch. "Come on, you little rascal"--to
Porter--"you stick close to me or--" he didn't finish the sentence.
Gibson, pale, and shaking in every limb, but seeing no reason to regret
that she had hung on to little Porter's jacket, sank into a chair, and
simply looked at her mistress.
"Nevertheless," said Mrs. Sterling, with a long breath, and beginning to
smile, "I am very glad those boys were here to supper."
If her mistress could smile, it wasn't so very black and dreadful after
all, and Gibson came enough out of her gloom to mutter, "But look at this
room," and she waved her hands in despair.
"Oh, that's nothing," said Mrs. Sterling cheerfully, and then she laughed
outright as she glanced around at the effects of the tumult. "Gibson, come
here a minute."
The old serving-woman crept out of her chair, and went over to the sofa.
"Do you know"--Mrs. Sterling took her arm and pulled her gently down to a
level with the face on the pillow, and her soft eyes twinkled--"it really
seems good to see such a muss for once in my life: you do keep me so
immaculately fine, Gibson."
"Oh, mistress!" breathed Gibson, aghast.
"And to think I have had boys, actually young life here in this room." Mrs.
Sterling raised herself suddenly to rest on one elbow.
"Mistress--mistress," implored the alarmed Gibson, with restraining hands,
"you'll hurt yourself.
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