“They may be more desolate for us than for him. But it was his choice.”
He entered the room just then. Had Marguerite found any special entertainment? What had Zay been doing?
“Oh, writing letters. Marguerite be glad you have not forty dear friends who are crying write, write all the time.”
No there was only one person she had written to. That was Sally Weeks at Laconia, and if Sally answered—well, she was lame on spelling, if she had a good generous heart.
Zay and her aunt had done something beside writing and mending the party frock. They had discussed Marguerite.
“Well,” Aunt Kate had said with a long and rather unwilling accent, “she might have been worse. Her table manners are passable. I do suppose she has picked up a good deal at Mrs. Barrington’s. But she has a rather uncertain air, and we shall have to hunt her up some clothes. I must talk to your mother about it.”
“Oh, dear, what a fuss there will be at school; I wish it was all over! I do wonder what Louie Howe will say! We had some talks—well, I could see how some of the girls felt.”
“I think that was very natural. I suppose she was presuming.”
“No, she wasn’t,” returned Zay with heightened color. “I want to be fair to her for she is my sister. I think I’d rather be an only daughter, but father will be just as fond of me, I am sure. I don’t know about the boys; but then Vincent won’t be home until next summer. I suppose we’ll all go to West Point. Of course, I couldn’t well have stayed with mother this afternoon, so I don’t mind her being there—”
“Zay you are very generous and unsuspecting. I should be sorry to have any influence undermine your love. You have been all to your mother.”