“Tis my song, mine! I taught him!” said Christal, laughing to herself. “He thought to stay behind and escape me and my cruelty.' But we shall see—we shall see!”
Though in her air was a triumphant, girlish coquetry, yet something there was of a woman's passion, too. But she heard a descending step, and had only just, time to regain her invalid attitude and her doleful countenance, when Olive entered.
“This accident is most unfortunate,” said Miss Rothesay, “How will you manage your journey to-morrow?”
“I shall not be able to go,” said Christal in a piteous voice, though over her averted face broke a comical smile.
“Are you really so much hurt, my dear?”
“Do you doubt it?” was the sharp reply. “I am sorry to trouble you; but I really am unable to leave the Dell.”
Very often did she try Olive's patience thus; but the faithful daughter always remembered those last words, “Take care of Christal.”
So, excusing all, she tended the young sufferer carefully until midnight, and then went down-stairs secretly to perform a little act of self-denial, by giving up an engagement she had made for the morrow. While writing to renounce it, she felt, with a renewed sense of vague apprehension, how keen a pleasure it was she thus resigned—a whole long day in the forest with her pet Ailie, Ailie's grandmamma, and—Harold Gwynne.