The room in which Mary lay, commanded a view of the yard and gateway; and after Aunt Martha, Ida, and Jenny had left her, she arose, and stealing to the window, looked out upon the company as they departed. She could readily divine which was George Moreland, for Rose Lincoln's shawl and satchel were thrown over his arm, while Rose herself walked close to his elbow, apparently engrossing his whole attention. Once he turned around, but fearful of being herself observed, Mary drew back behind the window curtain, and thus lost a view of his face. He, however, caught a glimpse of her, and asked if that was the room in which Miss Howard was sick.
Rose affected not to hear him, and continued enumerating the many trials which she had endured at school, and congratulating herself upon her escape from the "horrid place." But for once George was not an attentive listener. Notwithstanding his apparent indifference, he was greatly disappointed at not seeing Mary. It was for this he had gone to Mount Holyoke; and in spite of Rose's endeavors to make him talk, he was unusually silent all the way, and when they at last reached Chicopee, he highly offended the young lady by assisting Jenny to alight instead of herself.
"I should like to know what you are thinking about," she said rather pettishly, as she took his offered hand to say good-bye.
With a roguish look in his eye, George replied, "I've been thinking of a young lady. Shall I tell you her name?"
Rose blushed, and looking interestingly embarrassed answered, that of course 'twas no one whom she knew.
"Yes, 'tis," returned George, still holding her hand and as Aunt Martha, who was jealously watching his movements from the window, just then called out to him "to jump in, or he'd be left," he put his face under Rose's bonnet, and whispered, "Mary Howard!"
"Kissed her, upon my word!" said Aunt Martha with a groan, which was rendered inaudible to Ida by the louder noise of the engine.
CHAPTER XXI.
VACATION.
In Mrs. Mason's pleasant little dining parlor, the tea-table was neatly spread for two, while old Judith, in starched gingham dress, white muslin apron, bustled in and out, occasionally changing the position of a curtain or chair, and then stepping backward to witness the effect. The stuffed rocking chair, with two extra cushions, and a pillow, was drawn up to the table, indicating that an invalid was expected to occupy that seat, while near one of the plates was a handsome bouquet, which Lydia Knight had carefully arranged, and brought over as a present for her young teacher. A dozen times had Lydia been told to "clip down to the gate and see if they were comin';" and at last, seating herself resignedly upon the hall stairs, Judith began to wonder "what under the sun and moon had happened."