“Are you here alone?” asked Mrs. Goodenough as they crossed the avenue.
“I have often come alone,” returned Ethel, smiling. “A friend was with me this morning; left me half an hour ago, and will meet me half an hour hence at Public Comfort.”
“A very particular friend,” thought Hetty to herself, noticing the light in Ethel’s eye, the deepening of the color on her cheek, as she mentioned him.
She had heard of Espy, knew something of what had been the state of affairs between the lovers.
“My dear, has he come back?” she asked in a delighted whisper.
Ethel’s blush and smile were sufficient to assure her that such was the case, and her kindly, affectionate heart was overjoyed.
They were so fortunate as to find an unoccupied corner in the ladies’ parlor at Public Comfort, seated themselves about a table, ordered their lunch, and while waiting for and eating it did a good deal of talking.
Hetty was the chief speaker. She began the instant they were seated:
“We’ve been to the sea-shore, mother and I, and it’s about some people we saw on the train, as we came up to the city, that I want to tell you, Floy. Such a nice-looking family—father, mother, one son, and two daughters. And the strangest thing is that the mother and the oldest girl look very much like you.”
At these words Ethel’s heart beat so fast and loud it seemed to her they all must hear it, and her hand trembled so that she was obliged to set down the cup she was in the act of lifting to her lips.