“What handsome hair you’ve got,” said Carrie, taking one of the curls in her hand. “I’d forgotten it was so beautiful. Hasn’t it improved during your absence?”
“A course of fever is not usually very beneficial to one’s hair, I believe,” answered ’Lena, as she proceeded to brush and arrange her wavy locks, which really had lost some of their luster.
Foiled in her attempt at toadyism, Carrie took another tack. Looking ’Lena in the face, she said, “What is it? I can’t make it out, but—but somehow you’ve changed, you don’t look so—so——”
“So well you would say, I suppose,” returned ’Lena, laughingly, “I’ve grown thin, but I hope to improve by and by.”
Drusa glanced at the two girls as they stood side by side, and her large eyes sparkled as she thought her young mistress “a heap the best lookin’ now.”
By this time Carrie had thought to ask for Durward. Instantly ’Lena turned whiter, if possible, than she was before, and in an unsteady voice she replied, that “she did not know.”
“Not know!” repeated Carrie, her own countenance brightening visibly. “Haven’t you seen him? Wasn’t he at that funny, out-of-the-way place, where you were?”
“Yes, but he left before I saw him,” returned ’Lena, her manner plainly indicating that there was something wrong.
Carrie’s spirits rose. There was a chance for her, and on their way downstairs she laughed and chatted so familiarly, that ’Lena wondered if it could be the same haughty girl who had seldom spoken to her except to repulse or command her. The supper-bell rang just as they reached the parlor, and Mr. Graham, taking ’Lena on his arm, led the way to the dining-room, where the entire silver tea-set had been brought out, in honor of the occasion.
“Hasn’t ’Lena changed, mother?” said Carrie, feeling hateful, and knowing no better way of showing it “Hasn’t her sickness changed her?”