“No, no,” Lilian fairly screamed. “We mustn’t stay another minute;” and grasping his arm, she led him into the hall, while the Judge, with the ink-bottle still in his hand, slyly whispered:
“You can write, boy—you can write.”
Yes, he could write, and comforted by this thought, Lawrence raised Mildred’s hand to his lips, while Lilian’s blue eyes flashed with far more spirit than was ever seen in them before. She would not say good-by, and she walked stiffly down to the carriage, holding fast to Lawrence, lest by some means he should be spirited away.
It was a most dismally silent ride from Beechwood to the depot, for Lilian persisted in crying behind her vail, and as Lawrence knew of no consolation to offer, he wisely refrained from speaking, but employed himself the while in thinking how the little red spots came out all over Mildred’s face and neck when she sat upon the sofa, and he called her:
“Dear Mildred.”
When they entered the cars where Lilian had hoped for a splendid time provided Milly told her “how to lead the conversation,” the little lady was still crying and continued so until Boston was in sight. Then, indeed, she cheered up, thinking to herself how “she’d tell Geraldine and have her see to it.”
“Why, Lawrence,—Lilian,—who expected you to-day?” Geraldine Veille exclaimed, when about four o’clock she met them in the hall.
In as few words as possible Lawrence explained to her that he had been nearly drowned, and as he did not feel much like visiting after that, he had come home and brought Lilian with him.
“But what ails her? She has not been drowned too,” said Geraldine, alarmed at her sister’s white face and swollen eyes.