"Yes, if the doctor says so, and thee'll promise not to talk much."
I made no promise, for I was bent on talking, as convalescents usually are, I believe, and Adah forgot her sewing, and her blue eyes rested on me with an intentness that at last grew a little embarrassing. She said comparatively little, and her words had much of their old directness and simplicity; but the former flippancy and coloring of small vanity was absent. Her simple morning costume was scrupulously neat, and quite as becoming as the Sunday muslin which I had so admired, and she had fastened at her breastpin a rose that reminded me of the one I had given her on that wretched Sunday afternoon when she unconsciously and speedily dispelled the bright dream that I had woven around her.
"For some reason she has changed very much," I thought, "and I'm glad it's for the better."
Zillah came in, and leaned on her lap as she asked her a question or two. "Surely the little girl would not have done that the first day I met her," I mused, then added aloud:
"You are greatly changed, Miss Adah. What has happened to you?"
She blushed vividly at my abrupt question, and did not answer for a moment. Then she began hesitatingly:
"From what mother says, it's time I changed a little."
"I think Zillah likes you now as she does Miss Warren."
"No, she likes Emily Warren best—so does every one."
"You are mistaken. Zillah could not have looked at Miss Warren differently from the way in which she just looked at you. You have no idea what a pretty picture you two then made."