“I might as well wish for a gown, too, while I am wishing, I suppose, you think. No, but I do admire those little jackets so much. I might cut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, and something lighter and less expensive would do. It wouldn’t take much, they are worn so small. What do you think about it, Graeme?”
“If you can afford it. They are very pretty, certainly.”
“Yes, are they not? But, after all, I daresay I am foolish to wish for one.”
“Why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, I daresay we can manage it between us.”
“Oh! as to setting my heart on it, I can’t quite say that. It is not wise to set one’s heart on what one is not sure of getting—or on things that perish with the using—which is emphatically true of jackets. This one has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost,” added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve.
There was no time for more.
“Here we are,” said Fanny, as they all came up to the door. “How pleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. We will all come to meet you again, dear. I only hope baby has been good.”
“She did not see them,” said Graeme, to herself, “or she does not care. If she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless—. I will watch her. I shall see if there is any difference. But she cannot hide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. I am quite sure of that.”
If there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not Rose. She was just what she always was. She was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide; nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. She was just as usual. She came into Graeme’s room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. She did not stay very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it as she had done at first. Still it was an important matter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think her altogether vain and foolish. And then Graeme said to herself, again, that Rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful.
Glad and thankful! Yet, Graeme watched her sister next day, and for many days, with eyes which even Fanny could see were wistful and anxious. Rose did not see it, or she did not say so. She was not sad in the least degree, yet not too cheerful. She was just as usual, Graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; and so she was, as far as any one could see.