of. I am very unhappy too. I'd like to talk about her to you.”
“No, no—your poor mother—I mustn't say anything. They'll be down upon me if I say anything. They're very sharp. He's sitting up with her now.”
Peter drew another chair up close to her and took her thin hand in his. She allowed him to do what he would and seemed to have no active knowledge of her surroundings.
“We'll talk about her,” he said, “often. You shall tell me all about her early life. I want to know everything.”
“Oh, no. I'm going away. Directly after the funeral Directly after the funeral I'm going away.”
Suddenly this frightened him. Was he to be left here entirely alone with his father and grandfather?
"You're going away?” he said.
“Oh, yes—your Uncle Jeremy will come for the funeral. I shall go away with him afterwards. I don't like your Aunt Agatha, but they always said I could come to them when your mother died. I don't like your Aunt Agatha but she means to be kind. Oh! I couldn't stay here after all that has happened. I was only staying for your mother's sake and I'm sure I've never gone to bed without wondering what would happen before the morning—Oh, yes, your Uncle Jeremy's coming and I shall go away with him after the funeral. I don't like your Aunt Agatha but I couldn't stay after all that has happened.”
AH this was said in a hurried frightened whisper. The poor lady shook from head to foot and the little bracelets on her trembling wrists jangled together.
“Then I shall be all alone here,” Peter said suddenly, staring at the candle that was guttering in the breeze that came from behind the heavy blinds.
“Oh, dear,” said his aunt, “I'm sure Uncle Jeremy will be kind if you have to leave here, you know.”
“Why should I have to leave here?” asked Peter.
His aunt sunk her voice very low indeed—so low that it seemed to come from the heart of the cactus plant by the window.
“He hasn't got your mother now, you know. He'll want to have somebody. . . .”
But she said nothing more—only gazed at the old man
