"And I'm sure I love the name—Lucy," I said, laughing. "It was my mother's."
The evening was yet early when we reached Mrs. Brightman's, for eight o'clock was striking. Hatch, in her new mourning, came stealing down the stairs with a quiet footfall, her black cap-strings flying as usual.
"Why, Miss Annabel, where have you been?" she cried. "I couldn't imagine what had become of you."
"I had to go out, Hatch—to take a deed to the office that poor papa had brought home and left here. Why? Has mamma wanted me?"
"Not she," returned Hatch. "She has just dropped off into a doze, and I am trying to keep the house free from noise. I thought you had been spirited away, Miss Annabel, and that's the truth."
"Mrs. Brightman has one of her bad headaches?" I remarked.
Hatch looked at me; then quickly at her young mistress: as much as to say: "You've been telling him that, Miss Annabel."
"It is that bad to-night, Mr. Charles, that her temples is fit to split," she answered. "Since master's death she have had 'em a'most constant—and no wonder, with all the worry and the shock it brought her. Are you going already, sir?"
"Will you not stay for tea?" asked Annabel.
"Not to-night, thank you," I replied.