“At last!” exclaimed Cornelia, as rising from the table, she took Marguerite’s hand and drew her stealthily away through the crowd, and up the back stairs to her own little bedchamber, where a cheerful fire was burning.
“Now, then, tell me all about it, Marguerite,” she said, putting her friend into her easy-chair of state before the fire, and seating herself on a stool at her feet. “Where have you been?”
“Gypsying,” answered Miss De Lancie.
“Gypsying; oh, nonsense, that is no answer. What have you been about?”
“Gypsying,” repeated Marguerite.
“Gypsying!” exclaimed Cornelia, now in wonder.
“Aye! Did you never—or have you too little life ever to feel like spreading your wings and flying away, away from all human ken—to feel the perfect liberty of loneliness, as only an irresponsible stranger in a strange place can feel it!”
“No, no! I never did,” said Cornelia, amazed; “but, tell me then where did you go from Plover’s Point.”
“To Tierra-del-Fuego, or the Land of Fire,” said Marguerite, with a deep flush.
“Fiddlesticks! Where did you come from last to Winchester?”