"Exactly," said the lady, with an amused little smile.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon," began Leslie, blushing all over.
"No need,—no need. Do you think I don't know what name I go by, behind my back? They suppose because I'm old and plain and single, and wear a front, and don't understand rats and the German, that I'm deaf and blind and stupid. But I believe I get as much as they do out of their jokes, after all." The dear old soul took Leslie by both her hands as she spoke, and looked a whole world of gentle benignity at her out of two soft gray eyes, and then she laughed again. This woman had no self to be hurt.
"We stopped at the Cliff this morning," Leslie took heart to say; "and they were so glad of your parcel,—the little girl and her aunt. And Prissy gave me something to bring back to you; a splendid specimen of beryl that she has found."
"Then my mind's at rest!" said Miss Craydocke, cheerier than ever. "I was sure she'd break her neck, or pull the mountain down on her head some day looking for it."
"Would you like—I've found—I should like you to have that, too,—a garnet geode from Feather—Cap?" Leslie thought she had done it very clumsily, and in a hurry, after all.
"Will you come over to my little room, dear,—number fifteen, in the west wing,—to-morrow sometime, with your stones? I want to see more of you."
There was a deliberate, gentle emphasis upon her words. If the grandest person of whom she had ever known had said to Leslie Goldthwaite, "I want to see more of you," she would not have heard it with a warmer thrill than she felt that moment at her heart.