"And no messages to any of us!" exclaimed Nona,—pertly, I thought.
"None," I replied. "Perhaps she was tired with writing, for she ends abruptly."
"Jackie always showed her letters from mother!" These words in a subdued whisper reached my ears. Of course I paid no regard to the sound.
Mr. Romilly sighed afresh, and observed that his dear wife was really not in a state to write at all—er, just before a journey—er. He hoped, however, that she must be feeling a little stronger—er, as she ventured on the exertion—er.
"I am afraid it was not very prudent of Mrs. Romilly," I said.
Then the Prayer-bell rang, and the subject had to be dropped.
My thoughts have dwelt a good deal on that letter to-day, as is perhaps natural. Mrs. Romilly has never before said or done anything to make me really uncomfortable, and to be made uncomfortable by friend is a trial. One must allow for the weakened fancies of illness. But what could induce her to suppose that I objected to Nona's high spirits? I would not, if I could, lower them by a single half-inch. Certainly I should be glad to find something in Nona besides the love of fun.
I am wondering, too, what more I can do with respect to Maggie. True it is, no doubt, that I have not yet succeeded in winning her love. Is this my fault? Everybody cannot suit everybody else: and the winning of another's affection must surely depend in some degree on natural compatibility of temper and of tastes. I hope in time to possess Maggie's trust and esteem. But suppose I never succeeded in gaining her love,—should I be necessarily to blame? Surely I need not count myself so lovable a person, that all with whom I come in contact must needs care for me!
Again, what about Mrs. Romilly's estimate of Maggie? Are there really such hidden depths beneath that childish manner? It might, of course, be so: yet somehow I cannot help thinking with a smile of the famous Chicken's soliloquy, as he views the empty egg-shell whence his little body has just emerged—
"And my deep heart's sublime imaginings
In there!!"