“Mais oui, mais oui!” cried Bertha heartily. “A bientôt tout le monde!” In the universal benevolence which always pervades the welcome hour of departure from a boring sojourn, she even added cordially:
“Vous nous reverez l’année prochaine!”
In the cab which was to take them to the station, the last wave exchanged between Frances and the substantial form of old Mrs. Mulholland, who stood agitating her arms like a semaphore in the convent doorway, Frances turned inquiringly to her guardian.
“Do you really think we shall come back next year, Cousin Bertie? Did you mean for the Retreat?”
“Perhaps, Francie. If you’re very keen about it. We’ll see.”
“Oh,” said Frances, with a sudden and most unusual effusion, “you are so kind to me, Cousin Bertie. I don’t feel I can ever be grateful enough to you. I wish I need never—never do anything but just what you liked!”
Bertha was amazed, and also rather touched.
She laid her hand kindly on Frances’.
“Well, my dear little girl, that depends on yourself, doesn’t it? But you’ve always been a good child, my Francie, and I know the poor little conscience is responsible for most of our differences of opinion, eh?”
She laughed a little.