This was in October, and not long afterwards Margery startled Reinette by telling her that she was going for a winter to Nice, and possibly to Rome.
“Mother has not seemed herself for several weeks,” she said, “and I think she needs a change of air; besides, I am most anxious to see Italy.”
And so, two weeks later, the friends bade each other good-by, and after one or two letters had passed between them, the correspondence suddenly closed on Margery’s side, and the two friends knew nothing more of each other’s whereabouts, until each was startled to hear that the other was in America.
Such was in part the history of Margery up to the day when Miss Ethel Rossiter entered the room where she was sewing, and after moving about a little and inspecting the trimming of her dress, began hesitatingly:
“By the way, Miss La Rue, my brother has been telling us about our cousin, Miss Reinette Hetherton, who has just come from Europe, and who says she knew a Margery La Rue in Paris. Is it possible she means you?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” and Margery’s face was all aglow with excitement as she looked quickly up. “Yes, Miss Rossiter; you must excuse me, but the door was open, and I could not help hearing some things your brother said—he talked so loud; and I know it is my Queenie. I always called her that because she bade me do so. She is the dearest friend I ever had, and I have loved her since that wintry afternoon when she brought so much sunshine into my life—when she came into our humble home, in her scarlet and rich ermine, and sat down on the hard old chair, and acted as if I were her equal. And she has been my good angel ever since. She persuaded her father to send me to the English school where she was a pupil. She got me a situation as governess, and when I rebelled against the confinement and the degradation—she persuaded me to take up dressmaking, for which I had a talent, and encouraged and stood by me, and brought me more work than any ten of my other customers. Oh, I would die for Queenie Hetherton!”
Margery had talked rapidly, and her blue eyes were almost black in her eagerness and excitement, while Ethel listened to her intently, and thought how beautiful she was, and wondered, too, when or where she had seen a face like the face of this fair French girl, whose accent was so pretty, and whose manners were so perfect.
“And she is your cousin,” Margery said: “that is strange, for I always understood that her mother was an English woman.”
Ethel colored a little, and replied:
“Yes, her mother and mine were sisters. Mr. Hetherton’s old home was in Merrivale. Did you ever see him?”