“How I 'd like to go back to it!” said Lucy, earnestly.
“To the time, or to the place? To which would you wish to go back?”
“To the Nest,” said Lucy, blushing slightly; “they were about the happiest days I ever knew, and dear papa was with us then.”
“And is it not possible that you may all meet together there one of these days? He'll not remain at the Cape, will he?”
“I was forgetting that you knew him,” said she, warmly; “you met papa since I saw you last: he wrote about you, and told how kindly and tenderly you had nursed him on his voyage.”
“Oh, did he? Did he indeed speak of me?” cried Trafford, with intense emotion.
“He not only spoke warmly about his affection for you, but he showed pain and jealousy when he thought that some newer friends had robbed him of you—but perhaps you forget the Cape and all about it.”
Trafford's face became crimson, and what answer he might have made to this speech there is no knowing, when Tom cried out, “We are going to have our coffee and cigar on the rocks, Lucy, but you will come with us.”
“Of course; I have had three long days of my own company, and am quite wearied of it.”
In the little cleft to which they repaired, a small stream divided the space, leaving only room for two people on the rocks at either side; and after some little jesting as to who was to have the coffee-pot, and who the brandy-flask, Tom and Cave nestled in one corner, while Lucy and Trafford, with more caution as to proximity, seated themselves on the rock opposite.