"I thought you were never coming," said Lesley at length, as she clung fondly to her mother. "I could hardly sleep last night for thinking how delightful it would be to go away with you!"
Lady Alice gave a little start, and looked at the girl as if there had been some hidden meaning in her words.
"Go away with me?" she repeated.
"Yes, mother darling, and be with you always: to look after you and not let grandpapa tire you with long walks and long games of backgammon. I shall be his companion as well as yours, and I shall take care of you both. I have planned ever so many things that I mean to do—especially when we go to Scotland."
"Lesley," said Lady Alice, faintly, "I am tired: let me sit down." And then, as the girl made her seat herself in the one arm-chair that the room contained, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude, she went on, with paling lips: "You never said these things in your letter, child! I did not know that you were so anxious to come away—with me."
"Oh, mamma, dear, you surely knew it all the time?" said Lesley, thinking the comment a reproach. "You surely knew how I longed to be with you? But I would not say much in my letters for fear of making you think I was unhappy; and I have always been very happy here with the dear sisters and the girls. But I thought you understood me, mamma—understood by instinct, as it were," said Lesley, kneeling by her mother's side, and throwing an occasional shy glance into her mother's face.
"I understand perfectly, dear, and I see your unselfish motive. It makes me all the more sorry to disappoint you as I am about to do."
"Oh, mamma! Am I not to leave school, then?"
"Yes, dear, you will leave school."
"And—and—with you?"