Margery smiled, and, pushing up another chair, seated herself near the speaker.
Two months had passed since she left Hurstley—two long, peaceful months; and, though she could not say she was happy, she was content. She seemed in those eight weeks to have put all girlishness from her; her figure, in the simple gray gown that fitted to perfection, was already touched with the grace of a woman; her face, as lovely as of yore, bore, nevertheless, the traces of thought and the expression of a deep, all-searching mind. She wore her red-gold tresses curled high on her small head, and this gave her a dignified and maturer air.
“Do not talk of my goodness,” she answered, lightly. “What are my little efforts, compared with all the kindness you have shown me?”
“You cannot guess, Margery, how different my life has been since you came to me. Now, don’t shake your head! I can never say it often enough. Do you know, I had a presentiment that we should become friends the very instant Mrs. Fothergill mentioned your name? Margery Daw! There is a sweetness about it, a touch of romance. I was quite eager you should come, and I was so happy when the letter arrived saying that you would. I am afraid, dear,” Lady Enid added, with a sigh, “that sometimes it is very lonely and dull for you here, with only a poor sick girl for company.”
Margery slipped to her knees beside the slight form in its cardinal-colored silk wrapper.
“Never say that again—never,” she said, “for I will not listen.”
Lady Enid smiled; and Margery bent her lips to the thin, white hand.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked, gently.
“Quite. Now stay here, Margery, and let us chat together. When the lamps come, I will hear you sing; but this is what I enjoy. I have been thinking to myself, as I lay on my couch, what a delight it would be to find out the truth about your poor young mother. How glad I should be if we could discover a clew!”
“I have given up all hope,” Margery responded, dreamily.