“I don’t know. It’s all very sad and lonely without you. I think she wants to forgive him; but he’s proud and angry, and holds aloof.”
I turned up my nose with a sniff.
“It’s nicer to be a healthy sinner. Her fulsomeness makes me sick. And how did you get leave to come and see me?”
“I didn’t get leave at all,” she said. “I daren’t even ask it, feeling sure she’d refuse. I slipped out without telling, hearing cook had something to send. I expect she’ll be very angry when she hears.”
“If she hears,” I corrected her.
She looked at me with sad, puzzled eyes, the comical dear.
“How shall I ever bear with it all after you are gone, Diana?” she said. “You’ll let me come and stay with you sometimes, when you’re married?”
“Now, Patty,” I said, “tell me the truth. Is the creature still making eyes at you?”
“No,” she answered stoutly; then added, conscience-stricken, “At least, I don’t know. I never look at him. But—but—O, Diana! I wish he’d go altogether, and leave us, you and me, as we were.”
“That’s perhaps not a very kind wish, child,” said I. “But you shall come and stay with us when once I’ve got him under control, never fear.” Then, as I heard the step of the Mother returning, “Hush!” I whispered; “tell him I’ve no idea of being buried alive here: that he must arrange it very quickly, or I shall return and give everything away.”