"It will come to you in its time, Sally."
"Oh, yes,—I suppose like the chicken-pox or the whooping cough," said Sally; "one of the things to be gone through with, and rather disagreeable while it lasts,—so I hope to put it off as long as possible."
"Well, come," said Mara, "we must not sit up all night."
After the two girls were nestled into bed and the light out, instead of the brisk chatter there fell a great silence between them. The full round moon cast the reflection of the window on the white bed, and the ever restless moan of the sea became more audible in the fixed stillness. The two faces, both young and fair, yet so different in their expression, lay each still on its pillow,—their wide-open eyes gleaming out in the shadow like mystical gems. Each was breathing softly, as if afraid of disturbing the other. At last Sally gave an impatient movement.
"How lonesome the sea sounds in the night," she said. "I wish it would ever be still."
"I like to hear it," said Mara. "When I was in Boston, for a while I thought I could not sleep, I used to miss it so much."
There was another silence, which lasted so long that each girl thought the other asleep, and moved softly, but at a restless movement from Sally, Mara spoke again.
"Sally,—you asleep?"
"No,—I thought you were."
"I wanted to ask you," said Mara, "did Moses ever say anything to you about me?—you know I told you how much he said about you."