But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall.

“I want my mother,” she cried, her little face quivering, and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling.

“She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't.”

Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts.

Anna snatched back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria:

“No, you're not to undress me — I want my mother,” — and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her body shaken.

“Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she doesn't want you to cry.”