"There are only the three of us now. The saddest thing about my return to England was that there was no mother to welcome me."
"Oh, I am very sorry!" was all I could find to say.
The words came from my very heart, for I did not need to be told all that this meant for him.
Hardly another word passed between us then, for we had reached the gate of "Gay Bowers." I ran into the house, feeling that the past day had been a golden one for me. Each hour had been full of quiet pleasure, and not least should I prize the memory of the confidential talk with Alan Faulkner, which seemed to have made us true friends.
Aunt told me that Agneta had complained of being tired, and had gone to bed. I soon followed her example, though I was far from feeling sleepy.
When I entered our room, Agneta was already in bed. She lay with her head almost hidden by the bed-clothes, and when I wished her "Good-night," she responded in a muffled tone. She did not raise her face for me to kiss, and I could divine the reason. Her face was wet with tears.
I felt very sorry for my cousin as I lay down and gave myself up, not to sleep, but to the delight of recalling every word that had passed between me and Alan Faulkner. I thought I knew how full of pain her heart was, and I longed to assure her of my sympathy, but did not like to open the subject.
On the following Wednesday some friends of the Colonel's, who were staying at Chelmsford, were expected to dine with us, so I arrayed myself in my new evening frock. I saw Agneta looking at me as I put it on, and when the last hook was fastened, she said admiringly:
"What a sweet frock, Nan!"
"I am glad you like it," I said as I turned slowly round before the mirror. "It is Olive's contrivance. Don't you think she is very clever?"