And so she seemed to do, outward like, to other people. But
it wasn't ever the same again. Something had broken in them both; with
him it was his trust and his pride, but in her it was her heart."
"But the children--surely they comforted her."
"Eh, miss, that was the worst. Poor lamb, poor lamb! Never after that
day, though they were more to her nor children ever were to a mother
before, would she have them with her. Just a morning and a good-night
kiss, and a quarter of an hour at most, and I must take them away.
She watched them play in the garden from her window or the little hill
there, and when they were asleep she would sit by them for hours, saying
how bonny they were and how good they were growing. And she looked after
their clothes and their food and every little toy and pleasure, but
never came in for a romp and a chat any more."
"Dear, brave heart!" murmured the girl.
"Yes, ma'am, you feel for her, I know. She was fair terrified of them
turning Maori and shaming their father. That was it. You didn't notice?
No; after you came she was too ill to bear them about, and it seemed
natural, I dare say. The Maoris are a fearful delicate set of folks.
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