_ CHAPTER XXXII. WE COME HOME--MRS. BUNDLE QUITS SERVICE
The day my wife and I returned from our wedding trip to Dacrefield was a very happy one. We had a triumphal welcome from the tenants, my dear father was beaming, the Rector no less so, and good old Nurse Bundle showered blessings on the head of my bride.
Frances was a great favourite with her. She was devoted to the old woman, and her delicate tact made her adapt herself to all Mrs. Bundle's peculiarities. She sat with her in the nursery that night till nearly dinner-time.
"I must take her away, Nursey," said I, coming in; "she'll be late for dinner."
"Go with your husband, my dear," said Nurse Bundle, "and the Lord bless you both."
"I'll come back, Nursey," said Frances; "you'll soon see me again."
"Turn your face, my dear," said Nurse Bundle. "Hold up the candle, Master Reginald. Ay, ay, that'll do, my deary. I'll see you again."
We were still at dessert with my father, when Bowles came hastily into the room with a pale face, and went up to my wife.
"Did you send for Mrs. Bundle, ma'am, since you came down to dinner?" he asked.
"Oh, dear no," said my wife.
"Cook was going upstairs, and met Missis Bundle a little way out of her room," Bowles explained; "and Missis Bundle she says, 'Don't stop me,' says she, 'Mrs. Dacre wants me,' she says, and on she goes; and cook waits and waits in her room for her, and at last she comes down to me, and she says--"
"But where _is_ Mrs. Bundle?" cried my father.
"That's circumstantially what nobody knows, sir," said Bowles with a distracted air.
We all three rushed upstairs. Mrs. Bundle was not to be found. My father was frantic; my wife with tears lamented that some chance word of hers might have led the half-childish old lady to fancy that she wanted her.
But a sudden conviction had seized upon me.
"You need not trouble yourself, my darling," said I; "you are not the Mrs. Dacre Nurse Bundle went to seek."
I ran to my father's dressing-room. It was as I thought.
Below my mother's portrait, on the spot where years before she had held me in her arms with tears, I, weeping also, held her now in mine--quite dead.
[THE END]
Juliana Horatia Ewing's Novel: Flat Iron for a Farthing
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