“I am that, and you are Sylvia Trevor. I’ve heard about you from—”
“Bridgie—yes! We have been great friends all winter.”
“Not Bridgie—no! We had so much to discuss about the old place and its people, that I’m afraid we have never mentioned your name. It was not Bridgie.”
“Oh!” said Sylvia, and stared across the room. It might, of course, have been Esmeralda herself who had enlightened Miss Burrell’s ignorance, but there was a mysterious something in the girl’s manner which gave a different impression. She was too proud to ask questions, and Miss Burrell volunteered no information, but smiled to herself as at an interesting reminiscence. It seemed as though what she had heard had been of a distinctly pleasant character!
Sylvia returned home feeling mysteriously happy and elated, and the sight of a letter addressed to herself in her father’s handwriting put the finishing touch on her satisfaction. She took it upstairs to her own room, and sat herself down on the one comfortable chair which she possessed, to read its contents with undisturbed enjoyment. She was in no hurry to break the seal, however, for it was so pleasant just to hold the letter in her hand, and lean back comfortably against the cushions, and dream.
The dreams, it is true, were mostly concerned with the events of the afternoon, and Mollie Burrell’s intent and kindly scrutiny; but it was like the old times when she had thought her own thoughts with her hand clasped in that of the dear old dad, and the touch of the sheet on which his fingers had rested brought back the old feeling of strength and security. She had told him much about her new friends, and he seemed always to wish to hear more, asking carefully veiled questions, the meaning of which were perfectly understood by his shrewd little daughter.
Dad was anxious about this friendship with a family which included a handsome grown-up son among its members; a trifle afraid lest she should be spirited away to another home before he had enjoyed his own innings.
“Poor old darling!” murmured Sylvia remorsefully, for at the bottom of her heart she knew well which home she would choose if the choice were given, and it did seem hard—horribly hard—that a parent should love and guard and work for his child from the hour of her birth, and that when she had grown old and sensible enough to be a companion instead of a care, she should immediately desert him for another! “But I could never love dad any less, never, never! I’d give anything in the world to see him again!” Sylvia cried mentally as she opened the envelope and straightened the thin, foreign sheets.
It was a long letter, and took a long time to read, and in the process Sylvia’s expression changed once and again, and finally settled into one of incredulous dismay. It was not that the news was bad; on the contrary, it was good—very good indeed—the thing above all others which she would have wished to hear, but it threatened a complete uprooting of her life just as it was growing most interesting, and full of possibilities. Dad was coming home, was even now on his way, and had desired her to meet him on his arrival at Marseilles. It was incredible, quite incredible in its startling unexpectedness. She turned again to the wonderful paragraph, and read it over once more slowly and carefully.
“And now, my darling, I have a piece of news, which I hope and believe will be welcome to you. Certain business changes have taken place of late, which you would not understand even if I tried to explain them, but such as they are they set me free to return home at my own convenience. I have been impatiently waiting this settlement of affairs for some time back, as I have been most anxious to see you after your long illness, and to satisfy myself that the best means are being used to restore the full use of your foot.
“I have made inquiries here, and believe that a course of baths of the German Spa B— would probably put the final touch to what has already been done. I propose, therefore, that you engage in good time a trustworthy lady courier from an office in London, and travel in her company to Marseilles, where I will meet you in the first week of June, having previously spent a week or ten days in Italy with my old friends the Nisbets, who return in the same boat.
“Come prepared for a summer abroad, and we can fit you up with any extras that are needed before we start on our travels. After you have finished your course of treatment and are, I trust, thoroughly convalescent, we will have a tour through Switzerland, and settle down at some mountain hotel, where the air will brace us up after our sufferings, climatic and otherwise.
“For the future, I have as yet no definite plans, except that, of course, you will not return to your present quarters. Perhaps we may eventually find a house that suits us in the south of England, but I can’t face English winters after my long residence in this sunny land, and you must make up your mind to humour a restless old Anglo-Indian for the next few years to come. Perhaps by that time I may have regained my old strength and nerve, which have sadly failed of late. I will wire from Brindisi as to definite arrangements.”