Muriel Carlyon remained silent, half-expecting that her young favourite would open her heart, and give her confidence to her friend. But Frances’s tongue was tied by her promise to her mother; though, in this time of trial, when sight seemed clearer and duty plainer, she did long to cast away the burden of deceit and tell the truth before all the world.
“Do you think anyone would take me as a nursery governess, Miss Carlyon?” asked the girl presently.
“No, dear, I do not. People do not engage little maids of fourteen for posts of responsibility.”
“I am nearly fifteen. Of course I know that is not old, but I could put up my hair.”
Muriel replied with a loving kiss.
“I might try a grey wig,” suggested Frances, throwing her arms round her friend; “and spectacles, you know,—like a girl in a story-book.”
“Even then, I am afraid, you would be nothing but a dear young lass, by no means formidable enough to pose as a governess.”
“You are formidable,” said Frances, hugging Miss Carlyon close. “And your hair is not grey, but pretty brown curls; and you look, oh! ever so young and jolly! It cheers me up just to see you.”
“Have that cheer as often as you will, darling; and believe it doesn’t make troubles lighter to meet them with a gloomy face.”
“Ah! that’s what Florry says.”