Floy obeyed, nothing loath, for she was weary enough of the monotony of her life and the disorder, hurry, and bustle of the work-room.
“Any change,” thought she, “must surely be for the better.”
As she passed though the hall at Mr. Lea’s, after attending to her errand, she overheard the inquiry of a gentleman at the door for Mr. Alden, and the servant’s reply,
“He’s left the city, sir; went off yesterday in a mighty big hurry. Had a telegram that somebody was sick at home.”
The words went through Floy like a shot. For an instant she was near falling, but recovering herself, she hastily drew down her veil and stepped past the servant into the street.
The gentleman was already gone, and she too went quietly on her way—seeming quiet outwardly, but in great tumult of feeling.
“Was it Espy’s father who was so ill? Would he now relent? Would he die?”
In either case the bar to her own and Espy’s happiness would be removed. She was horrified at the thrill of pleasure that thought brought with it: that she could be glad of the death of another! Silently asking forgiveness, cleansing, help, she hurried onward.
There was now neither hope nor fear of meeting Espy. Was she glad? was she sorry? Truly she did not know. Then she thought of him bereaved of a parent, and her tears fell fast. Who knew better than she the anguish of such a loss? Ah, if she could but save him this great sorrow!
Madame Le Conte lived in the suburbs of the city in a large, handsome dwelling on the shore of the lake, of which there was a fine view from the whole front of the house. The street-cars, however, carried Floy to within a square of the place, and it was still comparatively early when she reached it.