‘And your father will, I’m sure,’ said Mysie, ‘though he is yet a great way off. And as to Uncle Regie, I do wish something would happen that you could tell the truth about. If you had only broken the palm-tree instead of me, and I didn’t do right even about that! But if any mischief does happen, or accident, I promise you, Dolly, you shall have the telling of it, if you have had ever so little to do with it, and then mamma will write to Uncle Regie that you have proved yourself truthful.’
Dolores did not seem much consoled by this curious promise, and Mysie’s childishness suddenly gave way to something deeper. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘if one is true, people find it out and trust one.’
‘People can’t see into one,’ said Dolly.
‘Mamma says there is a bright side and a dark side from which to look at everybody and everything,’ said Mysie.
‘I know that,’ said Dolores; ‘I looked at the dark side of you all when I came here.’
‘Some day,’ said Mysie, ‘your bright side will come round to Uncle Regie, as it has to us, you dear, dear old Dolly.’
‘But do you know, Mysie,’ whispered Dolores, in her embrace, ‘there’s something more dreadful that I’m very much afraid of. Do you know there hasn’t been a letter from father since he was staying with Aunt Phyllis—not to me, nor Aunt Jane, nor anybody!’
‘Well, he couldn’t write when he was at sea, I mean there wasn’t any post.’
‘It would not take so long as this to get to Fiji; and besides. Uncle Regie telegraphed to ask about that dreadful cheque, and there hasn’t been any answer at all.’
‘Perhaps he is gone about sailing somewhere in the Pacific Ocean; I heard Uncle William saying so to Cousin Rotherwood.’ He said, ‘Maurice is not a fellow to resist a cruise.’