“I do not, and I shall not repent,” said Maria. “You are faithful: and it will be a relief to me to have sympathy—to be able to speak sometimes, instead of having to deny and repress my whole heart and soul. But I can tell you no more—not one word.”
“Do not. Only show me how I can comfort—how I can gratify you.”
“I need no special comfort now,” said Maria, smiling. “I have sometimes grievously wanted a friend to love and speak with—and if I could, to serve. Now I have a friend.” And the look with which she gazed at her companion brought the tears into Margaret’s eyes.
“Come, let us speak of something else,” said Maria, cheerfully. “When do you expect your friend, Mr Enderby, at Deerbrook again?”
“His sister says nobody knows; and I do not think he can tell himself. You know he does not live at Deerbrook.”
“I am aware of that; but his last visit was such a long one—”
“Six days,” said Margaret, laughing.
“Ah! I did not mean his last week’s appearance, or any of his pop visits. I was thinking of his summer visitation. It was so long, that some people began to look upon him as a resident.”
“If his mother does not grow much better soon, we shall see him again,” said Margaret. “It is always her illness that brings him.—Do you not believe me, Maria?”
“I believe, as before, that you say what you think. Whether you are mistaken is another question, which I cannot pretend to answer.”