Mollie smiled again, but with the same obvious effort.
“I hope you will be happy,” she said; “I hope some day we may hear good news from you. I don’t mean about money; you can guess what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Jack gravely; and there was silence for another five minutes, while the train approached nearer and nearer to the junction at which he was to alight, to catch the express for town.
“I hope I shall hear good news of you, too,” he said at last. “You will be busy at first, and there may not be much to tell, but later on—in a few weeks’ time, when you see how things are going—will you let me know? I shall be so interested to hear; and at any time if I can do anything, if you need anything done in town, or if I could help by coming North, you would be doing me a good turn by letting me know. I mean it, Mollie; it is not a polite form of speech.”
“I know; thank you; I will promise,” said Mollie, with, for the first time, a little break in her composure. Her lip trembled in a pathetic, childlike fashion, and, as if afraid of herself, she bent forward and addressed a pointed question to Ruth.
Ten minutes later the junction was reached, and Jack stood outside the carriage saying his last farewells. Ruth talked persistently in a high, cheerful voice, and Jack bit his moustache and cast furtive glances at Mollie’s white face. She smiled at him bravely as the train steamed away, and waved her hand, calling out, “Good luck! good luck!” Then they turned, the two poor girls, and clasped each other tightly.
“Oh, Lucille, my poor Lucille!”
“Berengaria, Berengaria, how horribly it hurts!”