“Well,” said Edith, “perhaps it will be as well for you to wait, since you are so agitated; and if you really will not come, you can drive back to the village. At any rate, I can see you to-morrow, and I will drive down for you the first thing.”
Miss Plympton looked mournfully at Edith.
“And you, Richards,” said Edith, looking at her maid, “I suppose it is no use for me to ask you. I see how it is. Well, never mind. I dare say she needs you more than I do; and to-morrow will make all right. I see it only distresses you for me to press you so I will say no more. Good-by for the present.”
Edith held out her hand. Miss Plympton took it, let it go, and folding Edith in her arms, she burst into tears.
“I'm afraid—I'm afraid,” said she.
“What of?” said Edith.
“About you,” moaned Miss Plympton.
“Nonsense,” said Edith. “I shall call on you to-morrow as soon as you are up.”
Miss Plympton sighed.
Edith held out her hand to her maid, Richards, and kindly bade her good-by. The girl wept bitterly, and could not speak. It was an unusual thing for Edith to do, and was rather too solemn a proceeding in view of a short separation for one night, and this struck Edith herself. But who knows what one night may bring forth?