"Go along, and marry the cat if you like! You are mad; and I am mad; and all the world's mad, I think."
"There," she said, "I knew that he would be a good boy at last!" And she sprang up, threw her arms round his neck, and, to his great astonishment, burst into the most violent fit of crying.
"Good gracious, Valencia! do be reasonable! You'll go into a fit, or somebody will hear you! You know how I hate a scene. Do be good, there's a darling! Why didn't you tell me at first how much you wished for it, and I would have said yes in a moment."
"Because I didn't know myself," cried she passionately. "There, I will be good, and love you better than all the world, except one. And if you let those horrid Russians hurt you, I will hate you as long as I live, and be miserable all my life afterwards."
"Why, Valencia, do you know, that sounds very like a bull?"
"Am I not a wild Irish girl?" said she, and hurried out, leaving
Scoutbush to return to his flies.
She bounded into Lucia's room, there to pour out a bursting heart—and stopped short.
Lucia was sitting on the bed, her shawl and bonnet tossed upon the floor, her head sunk on her bosom, her arms sunk by her side.
"Lucia, what is it? Speak to me, Lucia!"
She pointed faintly to a letter on the floor—Valencia caught it up—
Lucia made a gesture as if to stop her.