Henrietta’s insistence was all too convincing. Only it could not be—the girl must be mistaken. Or was this a manifestation of grief? She wanted her mother to be there, and therefore she saw her. There was another possibility. ‘My dear child, are you sure you did not dream it?’ The question was ill judged. Hetty kicked violently at the footrest on her desk. ‘Nooooo! I telled you and telled you! Mama send me milk and she come in the night and she make me look for the treasure and I look and look and look and I can’t ’member!’ The distraught squeal of the final words had Nell up and swiftly around her desk to catch at the small shoulders. ‘Quiet, Hetty! That will do! I believe you. Do you understand me, Hetty? I believe what you say.’ But Henrietta had dissolved into noisy sobs. These were not the shrieks of a temper tantrum. Nell recognised the desperate sound of a child in suppressed terror. Without further ado, she drew her up from the desk and gathered her into a close embrace.
