“There were only father and I to go; we have not always been able to do as we wished,” replied Miss Sabrina, gently.
“Mr. Morrison had money, I suppose?”
“I think not; we have never been told so.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“That was for Cicely, wasn’t it? I dare say she knows. We could only hope, father and I, that she would be happy; but I fear that she has not been, ah no.” And Miss Sabrina sighed.
“But we must not give it up so, she is still so young. Why don’t you write to Mr. Morrison yourself, and tell him, command him, to come back?” suggested Eve, boldly.
“But—but I don’t know where he is,” answered Miss Sabrina, bewildered by this sudden attack.
“You said South America.”
“But I couldn’t write, ‘Ferdinand Morrison, Esquire, South America.’”
“Some one must know. His relatives.”