"Am I disturbing you?" asked Owen in a whisper.
"No, no; sit down. You need not whisper, it is enough to speak low; he sleeps heavily. I am so glad to see him sleep, for his nights have been restless lately." As Mrs. Bransby spoke, she pushed aside a heap of gay-coloured silks with which she was embroidering a rich velvet cushion, and made room for Owen on the garden-seat beside her. "I know your news already," she continued, "and I must congratulate you, although you will be sadly missed. My boys will be in despair; we shall all miss you."
"I am glad, at all events, that you seem to approve of the step I have taken."
"Of course. All your friends must approve it.
"Well, they are not so numerous as to make their unanimity absolutely impossible."
Then, after a short silence, during which Mrs. Bransby resumed her embroidery, and Owen thoughtfully raked together some fallen leaves with his stick, he said—
"But you don't know the extent of my good fortune. There is a chance—rather a remote one, but still a chance—that this employment may lead to more, and that I may get some work to do in South America."
She started, and the gay embroidery fell from her hands on to the grass, as she exclaimed with plaintive, down-drawn lips, like those of a child, "Oh, not to South America! Don't go so far away!"
He merely shook his head.
"Oh, that is terrible!" she said. "I never thought of that! But, perhaps, you will not go."