"You don't seem quite as pleased as we are, Miss Audrey."
Audrey laughed and blushed. "I am—I am, really," she said, looking up at him with an apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I was selfish. I was thinking of Irene. You will want her home now, of course, and—well, I do not like to think of her going. I—we shall miss her horribly."
Mr. Vivian had slipped the reins over his shoulder, and was searching his pockets. "I have a letter here for your mother and father. I was on my way to deliver it. We don't want to part you, but of course we want Irene. We have missed her sadly."
"It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwrought state, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her. Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could not stand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see the tears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!
She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are not going yet.—I forgot, of course you were walking away from home. I just wondered——"
She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time before she got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in any direction but his.
"I—I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears. "Did you want me to do anything?"
"I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me. I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, and I am afraid I shall hardly do it."
"Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."
The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed her the letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren't going in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking care of Irene? You look tired."