But he did not feel inclined; he could do little except watch Bessie, and wonder what had come to put her in such astonishing spirits, and to make her so much gayer than when they started—so utterly absorbed in giving a full and detailed account of the appearance of the rector, the prosiness of his sermon, the beauty of the walk, and the horrible discord of the choir, that she had not a moment’s attention to spare for Lally, who revenged herself by coolly thrusting her little hand into the depths of Bessie’s pocket, in search of those sweetmeats which her friend usually kept there for the child’s special delectation and benefit.
“Not a sing,” exclaimed Lally at length, prayer-book in hand, and sorrow written on every feature in her face.
Then Bessie, breaking off in the middle of a sentence, turned and snatched the book from Lally, with a look of such blank terror, that for a second it seemed to Alick Dudley almost as though the sun had gone behind a cloud.
“Nossing for me,” remarked Lally reproachfully, and in a tone of mild expostulation against a state of society in which such things as pockets destitute of sweetmeats could be—“nossing for me?”
“You naughty child,” began Miss Ormson, sharply; but next moment she relented, and, catching Lally up in her arms, told her she would see whether “Bessie had anything in her drawers for her bold little girl.”
After which, exit Bessie with Lally, the latter contemplating the family group, as she departed, over Bessie’s shoulder, and staying her appetite by thrusting three of her fingers as far down her throat as was compatible with personal safety.
Once in her own room, Bessie, after finding the sweetmeats, turned them and Lally out of the apartment, locked her door, and then eagerly opened her prayer-book.
Had Heather Dudley been on the threshold, she might well have marvelled what calamity had happened to the girl. She shook the book, she fluttered over the leaves; she turned her pocket inside out, she lifted her handkerchief, she inspected the carpet, she examined the prayer-book again, then she walked to the door, unlocked and opened it, to meet Alick Dudley on the threshold.
“Is this yours?” he asked, giving her a sealed note. “It dropped from the prayer-book when Lally pulled it out of your pocket. I picked it up, but I did not like to give it to you on the lawn.”
“You dear, good boy,” she said; but Alick never smiled at this praise. His face was as pale as Bessie’s was red, his tone as quiet as hers was hurried.