In that month they must accomplish the task they had set themselves—to build a wall between Floy and Beresford too high for either to scale, in short, to make that parting at the cottage door an eternal separation.
Maybelle had called at the cottage with her father to see Floy off, and when the parting was over she turned to the sobbing Mrs. Banks, and asked, curiously:
“What was it that she ran back to whisper to you at the last moment?”
Mrs. Banks did not dream how much was involved in her answer. She thought it a matter of little moment, and answered, carelessly:
“She told me that if any letters came for her to Mount Vernon to send them to her at once in New York.”
“So she has a correspondent?” Maybelle muttered, jealously.
“Why, no, indeed, miss; I don’t believe the child ever received a letter in her whole life. I think she must have meant it for fun, for who would write her a letter? She has no relations that she knows of, and no real friend but me, poor little one!”
“Perhaps she has a clandestine love affair.”
“No, indeed, Miss Maybelle; I’m sure not. She was only joking.”
“Well, Mrs. Banks, I must go now. Shall I tell mamma that you will come to-morrow?”