When they were out in the clear air Martine's tone changed.
"Priscilla," she said gently, "do you know I am a little worried about father? He writes as if his business was not going well. He does not say it in exactly those words, but he has written only once, and the letter was far from cheerful. Either it is his business, or he doesn't feel well—and he is so far away. It seems to me now that we oughtn't to have let him go."
"But could you have helped it?" asked the practical Priscilla.
"Perhaps one of us could have gone with him—Lucian or I. South America seems so far away."
Priscilla's sympathy was readily aroused, and she gave it generously to Martine.
"It must be very, very hard for you to have your father so far away, especially if you think that he is not quite well. I know how it was when papa was in Cuba. It just seemed as if I couldn't bear it, and yet I suppose that there was nothing I could do, even if I had been there."
For a moment both girls were silent, though they realized that a bond of sympathy was drawing them more closely together.
Then Priscilla essayed the part of comforter.
"You feel worse about your father because he is so far away. They say far-off fields look green, but I think that far-off worries are harder to bear than those near at hand. I mean when the people or things we worry about are so far away that we can't understand exactly what is going on."
"Thank you, Priscilla, for your sympathy. I dare say you are right, and yet I cannot help wishing that I understood things better. I am old enough to help—if only I really knew how."