“You did not love me much once, Cary.”
“Oh, I get vexed when you tease me, that is all,” said I. “But I want you to look happier, Hatty, dear.”
“I should not tease you much now, Cary.”
I looked up, and saw that Hatty’s eyes were full of tears.
“Do come here, Hatty!” I said, earnestly.
“Grandmamma has not asked me,” she replied.
“Then I will beg her to ask you. I think she will. She said the other day that you were very much improved.”
“At all events, my red cheeks and my plough-boy appetite would scarcely distress her now,” returned Hatty, rather bitterly. “Mr Crossland is coming for me—I must go.” And while she held my hand, I was amazed to hear a low whisper, in a voice of unutterable longing,—“Cary, pray for me!”
That horrid Mr Crossland came up and carried her off. Poor dear Hatty! I am sure something is wrong. And somehow, I think I love her better since I began to pray for her, only that was not last night, as she seemed to think.
This morning at breakfast, I asked Grandmamma if she would do me a favour.