Margaret looked into the honest eyes of her friend, clear as a June sky, and was satisfied.
“I guess, nothing, my dear,” she said, “nothing at all. I love you so that I suspect everybody has designs on your affections. I guess I’m just a jealous, selfish old thing. Forget all about it.”
After the mid-day meal Margaret, in obedience to the doctor’s orders, retired to her room for a rest. Helène, left to herself, took a book and recalling a shady nook she had passed on her way to the farm-house, crossed the road and sought its seclusion.
CHAPTER XXV
THE small, moss-covered clearing under the beeches proved to be an ideal retreat—a place good for the soul longing for isolation—a refuge for those desiring to escape from the insistent call of the obstinate present.
The sloping ground, soft and furry like a carpet, invited relaxation. The book seemed clever and promising—but somehow she could not concentrate her attention on its pages; her mind would wander off aimlessly. She began to muse, and the volume slid on to the moss.
This life she was living—was it really to be her life always? This wonderful land had opened up to her new vistas and new experiences. The people were, oh, so kind and good to her. It was all very interesting and no doubt worthy the efforts. But was this the land for her—for her, the last of her race?
She had been so enthusiastic in the morning. She had been looking forward to this little vacation for many days; and now, when it had come, when everything was just as she had wished it to be, she was not happy!