Better late than never. Mary did not say so, as her father had done, but only thought it. "Thank you," she said, in a very low voice. "Has any one else come?"
"No,—no one else. I am with Alice, and as I have very very much to say, I have come alone. Oh! Mary,—dear Mary, is not this sad?" Mary was not at all disposed to yield, or to acknowledge that the sadness was, in any degree, her fault, but she remembered, at the moment, that Lady Sarah had never called her "dear Mary" before. "Don't you wish that you were back with George?"
"Of course I do. How can I wish anything else?"
"Why don't you go back to him?"
"Let him come here and fetch me, and be friends with papa. He promised that he would come and stay here. Is he well, Sarah?"
"Yes; he is well."
"Quite well? Give him my love,—my best love. Tell him that in spite of everything I love him better than all the world."
"I am sure you do."
"Yes;—of course I do. I could be so happy now if he would come to me."
"You can go to him. I will take you if you wish it."