'What can they have to talk about?' said Nelly, wondering.
'Wouldn't you like to know!'
'You're not going to tell me?'
'Not a word.'
His eyes laughed at her. They walked on beside each other, strangely content. And yet, with what undercurrents of sensitive and wounded consciousness on her side, of anxiety on his!
At the top of Red Bank they came up with Marsworth and Miss Stewart. Nelly's curiosity was more piqued than ever. If all that Marsworth had said to her was true, why this evident though suppressed agitation on the girl's part, and these shades of mystery in the air? Daisy Stewart was what anybody would have called 'a pretty little thing.' She was small, round-cheeked, round-eyed, round-limbed; light upon her feet; shewing a mass of brown hair brushed with gold under her hat, and the fresh complexion of a mountain maid. Nelly guessed her age about three and twenty, and could not help keenly watching the meeting between her and Cicely. She saw Cicely hold out a limp hand, and the girl's timid, almost entreating eyes.
But, the next moment, her attention was diverted to a figure slowly mounting the steep hill from Grasmere, on the top of which the cottage party were now standing, uncertain whether to push on for their walk, or to retreat homewards before the increasing rain. The person approaching was Bridget. As she perceived her, Nelly was startled into quick recollection of Cicely's remark of the morning—'Your sister seems to have grown much older.' But not only older—different! Nelly could not have analysed her own impression, but it was so painful that she ran down to meet her.
'Bridget, it's too far for you to Grasmere!—and coming back up this awful hill! You look quite done. Do go home and lie down, or will you come to the cottage for tea first? It's nearer.'
Bridget looked at her coldly.
'Why do you make such a fuss? I'm all right. But I'm not coming to the cottage, thank you. I've got things to do.'