Three years ago all this had happened, and she was with Mrs. Despard still, though of course she had visited Pen’yllan occasionally. She had not tired her patroness, if patroness she could be called. She was not the sort of girl to tire people of their fancy for her. She was too clever, too cool, too well-poised. She interested Mrs. Despard as much to-day as she had done in the first week of their acquaintance. She was just as much of a study for her, even in her most vexatious moods.
“Have you a headache?” asked Mrs. Despard, after a while.
“No,” answered Lisbeth.
“Have you had bad news from Pen’yllan?”
Lisbeth looked up, and answered Mrs. Despard, with a sharp curiousness.
“How did you know I had heard from Pen’yllan?” she demanded.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Despard, “I guessed so, from the fact that you seemed to have no other reason for being out of humor; and lately that has always been a sufficient one.”
“I cannot see why it should be,” said Lisbeth, tartly. “What can Pen’yllan have to do with my humor?”
“But you have had a letter?” said Mrs. Despard.
“Yes; from Aunt Clarissa. There is no bad news in it, however. Indeed, no news at all. How did I ever exist there?” her small face lowering.