One day Hetty had come in from her ride, and was sitting in her own room
with her story-book waiting for the usual evening summons from Mrs.
Rushton. The days were now very short, and the little girl's head was
close to the window-pane as she tried to read. The door opened and she
started up, shutting the book and preparing to go down-stairs; but there
was something unusual about Polly's look and manner as she came into the
room.
"Mrs. Rushton is taken very ill," she said, "and the doctor is sent for.
So you will please come down and have your tea in the drawing-room by
yourself, Miss Hetty."
"Is she more ill than usual? Much more?" asked Hetty. "The doctor was
here this morning."
"She's as ill as can be," said Polly, "and all of a sudden. But you
can't do her any good. And you'd better come down to your tea."
Hetty followed Polly without saying more, though she felt too anxious to
care about her tea. She was greatly frightened, yet hardly knew why, as
Mrs. Rushton was often ill, and the doctor was often sent for. There was
a general impression in the household that the mistress sometimes made a
great fuss about nothing, fainted, and thought she was going to die, and
in a few hours was as well as usual.
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