“Poor Flora!—you think her really better this evening?”
“Much better, indeed; if we could only raise her spirits, I think she would recover very well; but she is so sadly depressed. I must try to talk to Ethel—she may better understand her.”
“I have never understood Flora,” said Meta. “She has been as kind to me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether any one did but dear Margaret.”
Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been. She found great repose in her aunt’s attendance, retracing, as it did, her mother’s presence, and she responded to her tenderness with increasing reliance and comfort; while as her strength began to revive, and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into greater confidence.
The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her one day almost faint with agitation—she had heard Ethel’s voice in the next room, and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much grieved as relieved, to find that she had been there seeing the baby, but was now gone.
“How does the dear Ethel look?” asked Flora presently.
“She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and harassed, but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by Aubrey on his pony, and I think it did her good.”
“Dear old Ethel! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie’s engagement?”
“Do you mean—” and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her interrogation.
“Yes,” said Flora, answering the pause.