"But he will not be without her long," said the countess. "Did you not know that he was coming here in February?"
She saw a rose-colored flush underneath the brown skin; she saw a sudden warm light in the brown eye; and without a word, almost by instinct, the Countess of Linleigh guessed the girl's secret, and how dearly she loved Earle.
"Coming here!" repeated Mattie. "I am so glad!"
"So am I," added Lady Linleigh. "I have the highest opinion of your friend Earle."
She did not know how grateful those words were to the girl, who never heard Earle spoken of save as Doris' own peculiar property. "Her friend!" She could have blessed Lady Linleigh for it. The words seemed to have made that sweet spring sunshine brighter in some strange, vague way—the odor of the hidden violets and the sound of Earle's voice seemed to harmonize.
"And you yourself, Mattie," said the countess, more touched than she cared to own by that unconscious revelation—"would you be happier to remain here, or to go home? You shall decide for yourself, and do which you will."
"My place is home," was the simple reply. "I have seen my dear Doris happy. I shall always be able to picture to myself what her manner of life is like. I shall know that Earle is content, being with her; so that it seems to me now my place and my duty alike are at home."
"I think you are right, dear child," said the countess.
She had read the girl's secret rightly, and knew that, from henceforward, for Mattie Brace, there would be but one consolation, and that she would find in doing her duty.
"You would like, perhaps," she added, "to wait and welcome Earle?"