“Well, I am,” said Jane, a little stoutly. “Why should we go away, Harriet?”
“Aren’t you going to be friends with me any more, Jane?”
“Of course, only I thought—”
“Oh, your thoughts! as if they signified,” said Harriet. “Look here, Jane; do let’s walk up and down in front of the house. Of course we’re going to have a jolly time; but I want to have a little chat with you, with you—my old, my oldest friend—all by ourselves.”
“Oh, well,” said Jane, mollified at once, “if you are going to make me your friend, like we used to be before that dreadful day when Ralph ran away, of course I shall be glad. But I thought you were quite changed, that you were the good-girl-for-evermore sort. You know you did repent—everyone in the school knew it, and on the whole, I was glad, although you gave me up.”
While Jane was speaking, the two girls had left the yard, and had entered a little bowery path which led round to the left side of the house. Here they could be seen from the house, but could not be heard. Harriet looked full at Jane when they found themselves in this bowery retreat.
“Look here,” she said, “I must out with it.”
“Well?” said Jane, expectantly. Jane looked stouter and rounder and broader than ever. “Well?” she repeated, fixing her black eyes on Harriet’s face.
“I am not a good-for-evermore sort of girl,” said Harriet. Then she stood very still, and waited for Jane to reply.
Jane could not tell at that moment whether she was most glad or sorry. Harriet had always rather frightened her, and since the date of Harriet’s repentance she, Jane, had had what might be expressed as a very good and comfortable time. She had got into no scrapes, she had had of course no adventures; but then she had worked at her studies, and had made such admirable progress that she even won a small prize at the break-up.