She was not looking at me now, but at the fire, and she paused before she answered slowly.
“It was not because I did not trust you, and her; but I did not wish to involve either of you in my fortunes. You have involved yourself in them,—my poor, foolish friend! But she, have you told her anything?”
“No. She does not even know that I am back in Russia; and before I returned I told her nothing.”
“She thinks me dead?”
“She did not know what to think; and she fretted terribly at your silence.”
“Poor Mary!” she said, with a queer little pathetic smile. “Well, perhaps her mind is at rest by this time.”
“You have written to her?”
“No,—but she has news by this time.”
“And your father?” I asked.
She shook her head.