“Oh, Mary, I wish you were going to stay here.”
“I wish! I wish I could, my dear!”
“I think I could be good if you were here!” she sighed. “Oh, Mary, why do they say that troubles make one good?”
“They ought,” said Mary.
“They don’t,” said Carey. “They make me wicked!” and she hid her face in the pillow with a great gasp.
“My poor Carey!” said the gentle voice.
“Oh! I want to tell you all about it. Oh! Mary, we have been so happy!” and what a wail there was in the tone. “But I can’t talk,” she added faintly, “it makes me sick, and that’s all her doing too.”
“Don’t try,” said Mary tenderly. “We know where to find each other now, and you can write to me.”
“I will,” said Caroline; “I can write much better than tell. And you will come back, Mary?”
“As soon as I can get a holiday, my dear, indeed I will.”