Hermione was writing letters at a davenport, when the little voice timidly invaded her absorption. Somehow Mittie had grown timid lately. She always had a sense of being "in the way" with Hermione.
"I don't know exactly. You can ask Milton."
"I did ask Milton, and she thought it would be rather early. But I don't know what 'rather early' means; and she's so busy, she says she can't be bothered. May I get some flowers for mother's room out of the conservatory?"
"No, certainly not," Hermione answered. "You will spoil the whole look of things."
"But I do want it so much," sighed Mittie.
Hermione wrote on, unheeding.
"Then if I mustn't get any flowers out of the conservatory, I think I'll try to find some pretty leaves in the fields," murmured Mittie. "I'm sure mother would like them. If Marjory wasn't away all to-day, I'd ask her for some. But I dare say some nice red and yellow leaves would do. Do you think mother won't come for half-an-hour, cousin Hermione? Because I don't want to be out when she comes?"
Hermione looked up vacantly.
"Half-an-hour? No, I dare say not! Do run away, child. I am busy, and I cannot attend to you just now."
Mittie stole off without another word, and Hermione finished her letter, having no further interruptions. She closed, addressed, and stamped it. Then leaning back with a grave and worried air, Hermione drew from her pocket the scrawled note which she had received from Mrs. Trevor the day before. It was as follows:—