“Oh!” cried Sylvia shrilly. “Oh—oh!” She sat up in bed and stretched out two thin little hands, all a-tremble with excitement. “It’s you! Oh, how did you come? What made you come? How did you know I wanted you so badly?”
“I wanted you too!” said the girl quickly. She had a delightful voice; soft, and deep, and musical in tone, and she was prettier than ever, seen close at hand. Best of all, she was not a bit shy, but as frank and outspoken as if they had been friends of years’ standing. “Your aunt called on me this afternoon,” she went on, coming nearer the bed, and sitting down on the chair which nurse placed for her. “She invited me to come to see you some day, but I’ve a dislike to waiting, if there’s a good thing in prospect, so I asked if I might come at once, and here I am! I’m so glad you wanted to see me. I have watched you from my window, ever since you first sat up in your pretty red jacket.”
“And you looked up and smiled at me! I have watched you too, and wanted to know you so badly. I’ve been ill for months, it seems like years, and was so surprised to see that your house was taken. You can’t think how strange it is to creep back to life, and see how everything has gone on while you have lain still. It’s conceited, of course, to expect a revolution of nature, just because you are out of things yourself, but I didn’t seem able to help it.”
“I’m like that myself!” said the pretty girl pleasantly. There was a soft gurgle in her voice as of laughter barely repressed, and she pronounced her i’s with a faint broadening of accent, which was altogether quaint and delightful.
Sylvia mentally repeated the phrase as it sounded in her ears, “Oi’m like that meself!” and came to an instant conclusion. “Irish! She’s Irish. I’m glad of that. I like Irish people.” She smiled for pure pleasure, and the visitor stretched out a hand impulsively, and grasped the thin fingers lying on the counterpane.
“You poor creature, I’m grieved for you! Tell me, is your name Beatrice? I’m dying to know, for we had a discussion about it at home, and I said I was sure it was Beatrice. I always imagine a Beatrice dark like you, with brown eyes and arched eyebrows.”
“I don’t! The only Beatrice I know is quite fair and fluffy. No, I am not Beatrice!”
“But you are not Helen! I do hope you are not Helen. The boys guessed that, and they would be so triumphant if they were right.”
“No, I’m not Helen either. I’m Sylvia Trevor.”
“’Deed, you are, then! It’s an elegant name. I never knew anyone living by it before, and it suits you, too. I like it immensely. Did you,”—the grey eyes twinkled merrily—“did you find a nickname for me?”