It was quite touching, as days went on, to see her eagerness about the postman. Every hour when he might pass,—not seldom in a London street,—she was almost sure to be watching at the window. A flush would come into her cheeks the moment she saw or heard him in the distance, deepening each instant as he drew nearer, till he went by our door. Then her colour would fade quite away, and for half-an-hour or more she would look pale and spiritless.
But she said nothing, and she did not seem to wish for sympathy. Since her first arrival, she had not once asked whether or no we had decided to keep her. That appeared to be all taken for granted; unless indeed she spoke more freely to Cherry. This anxious watching for the postman, however, showed to me something of her real feelings.
The middle of the week passed, and still I had not spoken to her about the Saturday excursion. Another Saturday was drawing near, and I overheard a mention of “Hampton Court” among the boys. It might or might not mean anything; but I resolved to delay no longer. And late on Thursday afternoon an opportunity came.
Maimie and I were alone together, not a very common occurrence. She was watching at the window, in one of her periodical fits of anxiety. I knew by her rosy flush that the postman had approached. Suddenly she grew crimson. Steps ran up our flight, and the sharp double rap sounded. Maimie flew into the hall like a wild creature; but her return was slow enough.
“It is nothing,—only a stupid London letter,” she said brokenly, and I saw that her eyes were overflowing.
“Did you expect a letter from your stepfather, Maimie?” I found myself saying.
She straightened herself, and dashed aside her tears. “Yes, of course,” she answered. “He said he would write.”
I did not reply quickly. Maimie sat down on a chair facing me.
“Aunt Marion,” she said,—“I think father must be ill.”
I had it on my lips to say,—“No need to suppose that.” But looking up at her, a feeling of pity came over me, and I only replied,—“He may be.”