“That is the very utmost that can be said, papa. You cannot go beyond that. There is no one like. Jean in. Marion’s eyes.”
“Am I like her? Maybe I may grow like her, sometime,” said the girl softly.
All this time May had been keeping a wise silence with regard to her friend. She believed that he would see all that was good and pleasant in her all the more readily that they were not pointed out to him; and so it proved.
The days passed quickly and happily and came to an end too soon. All this time Mrs Calderwood had been at the seaside with her old friend, who had needed the change, and when they returned Marion was called home. She was glad to go home, but at the same time she acknowledged herself sorry to leave.
“For I think I never had so much pleasure all my life before. Only I am afraid my mother will think I cannot have been much comfort to you.”
“She will be quite mistaken then,” said Mrs Manners laughing and kissing her. “You have been a great comfort to me.”
A great surprise awaited Marion when she reached home. She found her mother pondering gravely over a letter which she held in her hand, and the shadow of care did not—as it ought to have done—pass from her face as her daughter came in. It deepened rather; and in her pre-occupation she almost forgot to return the girl’s greeting.
“Is any thing wrong, mother? Is it Willie?”
“No, no. It is a letter I have gotten from Miss Jean.” She spoke with hesitation. Marion looked wistfully at the familiar handwriting of her old friend.
“Miss Jean asks you to visit her in Portie. It seems her nephew and niece are thinking of a journey, but Miss Dawson doubts about leaving her aunt, who is not strong. Miss Jean thinks she would go if you would promise to go and stay with her a while.”