“I will tell you to-morrow, not to-day,” was the reply. “To-morrow, perhaps.”
And then, irresistibly, there came back to Heather’s mind that passage in “Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia,” where Elizabeth, repeating the word “to-morrow,” sighs.
“You look pale, Bessie,” Heather remarked, when they had almost reached the foot of Berrie Down Lane. “Are you getting tired, dear?”
“I do not feel very well,” Bessie answered; “I think I will go back again, if you have no objection.”
Immediately, every one offered to return with her, even Harry Marsden, who, being debarred from throwing stones at the birds, was beginning to feel weary of the walk.
“I do not mind going to church.” “Let me walk back with you.” “No, I will go.” “No, you have not been out for ever so long.” “Let me”—“me”—“me.”
All of which polite offers Bessie declined, saying, “if any one insisted on returning with her, she should walk on to church.”
“I am not ill,” she finished, “I am only tired; when I get home, I shall lie down and be as bright by the time you come back as any of you. Good-bye,—au revoir!”—and with that she kissed her hand, and commenced slowly retracing her steps—Heather turning every now and then to watch her progress.
The farther the distance between them became, the silenter grew Heather. She felt a nameless anxiety about Bessie,—an anxiety which she could neither conquer nor analyze, but which, nevertheless, increased until when, almost within sight of Fifield church, she remarked to her husband that she really thought she must return home also.
“I am uneasy about Bessie,” she said; “the girl certainly did not look well.”