But Miss Skeat grew uneasy, feeling sure that something was the matter.
"Dear Countess," she said, "will you not retire to rest?
I fear that this horrid accident has shaken you.

Do go to bed, and I will come and read you to sleep." Her voice sounded kindly, and Margaret's fingers stole out till they covered Miss Skeat's bony white ones, with the green veins and the yellowish lights between the knuckles.
Miss Skeat, at this unusual manifestation of feeling, laid down the book she held in her other hand, and settled her gold-rimmed glasses over her long nose.

Then her eyes beamed across at Margaret, and a kindly, old-fashioned smile came into her face that was good to see, and as she pressed the hot young hand in hers there was a suspicion of motherliness in her expression that would have surprised a stranger.

For Miss Skeat did not look motherly at ordinary times.
"Poor child!" said she softly.

Margaret's other hand went to her eyes and hid them from sight, and her head sank forward until it touched her fingers, where they joined Miss Skeat's.
"I am so unhappy to-night," murmured Margaret, finding at last, in the evening hours, the sympathy she had longed for all day.