“Have you seen him?” she asked.
“No, but he has written.”
“And you think he—” the girl had her arms around her friend's neck again, and concealed her blushing face, “don't make me say it, McDonald.”
“Yes, dear, I am sure—I know he does.”
There was a little quiver in her form, but it was not of agony; then she put her hands on the shoulders of her governess, and, looking in her eyes, said:
“When you did see him, how did he look—how did he look?—pretty sad?”
“How could he help it?”
“The dear! But was he well?”
“Splendidly, so he said. Like his old self.”
“Tell me,” said the girl.