“Madge, you darling! How perfectly lo-ovely!” gasped Hope, in delight. “So clever, so dainty, so—so beautifully professional! But oh, dare I? ‘Charming recital’! Suppose it is a terrible failure. ‘Children’s entertainer’! I have never entertained any one in my life. Suppose I were to break down.”
“Practice makes perfect. Of course, you will have to try your hand. The vicar of Saint Giles’s called on us yesterday, and asked if we would help in the parish. I asked—just as a feeler—if he would like a treat for the school children, and he snatched at the idea. You are to let him know what you can do; and if you run the blockade of his street-arabs you need fear no longer. They won’t pretend to be amused if they are not, that is certain.”
“It will be pleasant for me if they hoot in the middle! But I’ll put my feelings in my pocket and do my very best. I must do something with my life, and I am determined that nervousness sha’n’t stand in my way;” and Hope sighed once more—the short, stabbing little sigh that had come so often since her return.
When the sisters retired to bed that evening Theo chatted pleasantly about ordinary matters until the gas was put out; then she stretched out an arm, and asked in a tenderer tone than was often heard from her lips:
“What is it, deary! What is the trouble? Can you tell me?”
“Oh Theo, how did you know?” cried poor Hope guiltily. “I thought I had hidden it so well.”
And then out it came—the poor little love-story, that was hardly a love-story at all, but only a “might have been;” the happiness of those few days, the awakening, the bitter wrench of parting. The soft voice trembled as it came to the end of the story, and a little sob was swallowed with the last words: “He was hurt! I could see he was hurt. There was a sort of strained look on his face as he stood looking after the train. Oh Theo, do you think I did right? Do you think I have made a mistake?”
Theo’s arm pressed tenderly against the heaving shoulder. “I think,” she said quietly—“I think you did what seemed to you best at the time, and what was very hard to do; and that, having done it, you must not regret. When you have chosen the narrow way, dear, you must not look back.”
“No,” said Hope faintly; “but still—I can’t—help—regretting. It is cowardly, Theo, but he was so—I liked him so very much. Do you think it is all over—that I shall never see him again?”
“He can see you at his sister’s next month if he wishes to. Try to put him out of your mind until then. Work hard, and let off steam to me when you feel particularly blue. This new plan is going to be a success; I feel convinced of it.”