"Oh, no, you haven't said a word, that's quite true, and I've never even tried to embrace you, yet I'm perfectly sure that you would hate it, and so Mrs. Redmond—"
"Is the victim," rejoined Amy. "Well, mamma is amiable. Only, while we are travelling, do be careful not to squeeze too tightly; it rumples her stock. Mamma, you'll really have to put on a fresh one before we start out."
During this conversation Priscilla had been silent. She was shorter than Martine, and fairer, and her expression was sad, or querulous,—at first glance it was hard to say which. Yet her half-mourning costume—the black skirt, and the black ribbon at her throat—suggested what was really the case—that Priscilla had had some recent sorrow.
"What have you been doing, Priscilla?" asked Mrs. Redmond, noticing the young girl's silence.
"Doing!" interrupted Martine, before Priscilla could speak. "Only think how silly she's been. This beautiful morning—and in a new place—she has spent writing letters. Isn't she a goose?"
"Oh, Martine!" and Amy shook her head in reproof.
Priscilla colored deeply as she turned apologetically to Mrs. Redmond. "I promised mamma to write as soon as I could. She will get my letter day after to-morrow."
"You were very considerate to write promptly. Your mother will be delighted to hear so soon. But where have you been, Martine?"
"Oh, rambling a little; I just couldn't stay in the house."
"It's strange, Martine," added Amy, "but a while ago, when I took a stroll down the road, I saw a boy and a girl wheeling down a side street together who looked so like you."