"There now," said Mrs. Ramsay, noticing her tears, and stroking her hair
with a kindly hand. "Mr. Rundell has told me all about it, and I am your
friend and his. I deeply sympathize with you, my dear, for I know how
much you must feel your position; but Mr. Rundell is a good-hearted
young man, and he'll be good to you, I know that. Don't cry, dearie. It
is all right."
Thus the words of an old song, sung by a drunken street singer, brought
a stronger and deeper stab to the heart of this lonely girl, than to the
exile in the back-blocks of Maori-land, or on the edge of the golden
West, eating his heart out over a period of years for a glint of the
heather hills of home, or the sound of the little brook that had been
his lullaby in young days, when all the world was full of dreams and
fair romance.
In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, Mysie flung her arms round the neck
of the older woman, pouring out her young heart and all its troubles in
an incoherent flood of sorrow and vexation.
"There now, dearie," said Mrs. Ramsay, again stroking Mysie's hair and
her soft burning cheek. "Don't be frightened. You must go to your bed,
for you are tired and upset, and will make yourself ill.
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