"Because the doctor said 'March'—and you sha'n't be allowed to put your feet in London a day earlier," said Mary, laying her head on Catharine's knee. "You needn't grumble. Next week you'll have your fells and your becks—as much Westmoreland as ever you want. Only ten days more here," and this time it was Mary who sighed, deeply, unconsciously.
The face above her changed—unseen by Mary.
"You've liked being here?"
"Yes—very much."
"It's a dear little house, and the woods are beautiful."
"Yes. And—I've made a new friend."
"You like Miss Puttenham so much?"
"More than anybody I have seen for years," said Mary, raising herself and speaking with energy; "but, oh dear, I wish I could do something for her!"
Catharine moved uneasily.
"Do what?"