E. Nesbit

“ Eden made as much haste to smash up the spar as though she had seen it—“poor Ellen, when her father and mother died, she was but six—there was only her and my Fred, so naturally we took her, and what little money the old lady left we spent sending her to a good school, never counting the bit of clothes and victuals. She was always for learning something, and above her station. ”

“ And a new governess, young, commonplacely pretty, and entirely heart-whole, came to take her place, to the open relief of Mr. Despard and the scarcely less pronounced satisfaction of the little girls. ”

“ Despard read the letter, and told his wife to tell the girl to take the tea-broker, for goodness’ sake, and be thankful. She’d never get such another chance, His wife told him not to be coarse, and wrote a gentle, motherly letter to Miss Eden.
On New Year’s day came a beautiful and very expensive handkerchief sachet for Mrs. Despard, and the news that Miss Eden was engaged. “And already,” she wrote, “I feel that I can really become attached to Edward. He is goodness itself. ”

“ She met her at the station, a beautifully dressed lady, in whom it was hard to recognise Miss Eden. Her face was a little thin, but glowing with happiness. Mrs. Despard looked round for the nurse.
“Oh,” said the happy mother, “I couldn’t put off coming, dear Mrs. Despard, I did so want to see you! But darling baby had a little cold, and Edward is so careful, you know. I tell him he’s quite an old maid about baby—Edward wouldn’t let me bring him; and railway carriages are draughty, aren’t they? ”

“ Poor Ella’s a respectable girl—she’s been with me since she was a little trot of six—all except the eleven months she was away with you, and then my Fred see her to your door and fetched her from your station. ”

“ Eden of the bursting, bright-buttoned, velvet bodice. Ellen had gone away—no one knew where she had gone.
Mrs. Despard will always reproach herself for not having rushed towards the white face that peered through the glass door. She could have done something—anything. So she thinks, but I am not sure.
******
“And it was none of it true, Bill,” she said, piteously, when, Mabel and Gracie safely tucked up in bed, she told him all about it. “I don’t know how she could! No dead lover—no retired tea-broker—no pretty house and sweetbriar hedge with ...., and no baby.” ”