“You forget that there is such a thing as a watchmaker; even for the human watch,” said Leslie, her tone softening.
“Granted; but I shall not put myself into His hands. Good-night, I am dead tired. I feel numb all over. I am going to bed. I want, beyond everything else on earth, to sleep.”
She threw herself down on her bed without an attempt at undressing.
Leslie started up to remonstrate. If Annie lay like that she would have a terrible cold in the morning. She advanced a step or two across the room, and then paused.
“After all, it does not matter,” she said to herself. “I should not have got into this awful scrape if I had not been good to her. I will leave her alone now. I have ruined myself absolutely and for ever; but I cannot—cannot be friends with her.”
“Rupert has gone, Rupert has gone,” moaned Annie, “and my sun has set.”
Leslie heard the words, but even they did not soften her.
“What has come to me?” she thought. “Has this trouble turned me into a stone?”
[CHAPTER XXIII—THE PICNIC.]
The Gilroy children were all in the wildest state of excitement. It was a lovely day in July, and they were going off for a picnic on the river. Leslie was standing by the center table in the dining room, busily packing a basket. Kitty was buttering bread and making sandwiches, Mabel was cutting cake into thick slices, Hester was darning a rent in the back of her dress, and Llewellyn was here, there, and everywhere.