“So glad!” she said. “I began to think it very, very long, not to see you all. But, papa, I am not Miss Maria now.”
“You saucy child!” exclaimed Mr. Hastings. But the Rector had the laugh against him. Mrs. Hastings drew Maria aside.
“My dear, you have been ill, George wrote me word. How did it happen? We were sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, we were sorry too,” replied Maria, her eyelashes resting on her hot cheek. “It could not be helped.”
“It was my own fault; not intentionally, you know, mamma. It occurred the day after we reached Homburg. I and George were out walking and we met the Verralls. We turned with them, and then I had not hold of George’s arm. Something was amiss in the street, a great heap of stones and earth and rubbish; and, to avoid a carriage that came by, I stepped upon it. And, somehow I slipped off. I did not appear to have hurt myself: but I suppose it shook me.”
“You met the Verralls at Homburg?” cried Mrs. Hastings, in surprise.
“Yes. Did George not mention it when he wrote? They are at Homburg still. Unless they have now left it.”
“George never puts a superfluous word into his letters,” said Mrs. Hastings, with a smile. “He says just what he has to say, and no more. He mentioned that you were not well, and therefore some little delay might take place in the return home; but he said nothing of the Verralls.”
Maria laughed. “George never writes a long letter——”