‘Are you wet, Charlie?’
‘No, Charlotte would not be wise, and made me keep the cloak to myself.’
‘You are wet through, poor child; come up at once, and change,’ said Amy, flying nimbly up the stairs,—up even to Charlotte’s own room, the old nursery, and there she was unfastening the drenched finery.
‘O Amy, don’t do all this. Let me ring.’
‘No, the servants are either not come home or are too busy. Charles won’t want me, he has Guy. Can I find your white frock?’
‘Oh, but Amy—let me see!’ Charlotte made prisoner the left hand, and looked up with an arch smile at the face where she had called up a blush. ‘Lady Morville must not begin by being lady’s-maid.’
‘Let me—let me, Charlotte, dear, I sha’n’t be able to do anything for you this long time.’ Amy’s voice trembled, and Charlotte held her fast to kiss her again.
‘We must make haste,’ said Amy, recovering herself. ‘There are the carriages.’
While the frock was being fastened, Charlotte looked into the Prayer-book Amy had laid down. There was the name, Amabel Frances Morville, and the date.
‘Has he just written it?’ said Charlotte.