“Yes, and you have never been that way,” said Cicely. “We can go any day you like. I generally bring the key of the door into the plantations with me. But it is too late to-night to set off on a walk.”
“Oh! yes; not to-night,” said Geneviève, and they slowly turned back to the house again.
“Are you beginning to like this old place, Geneviève?” said Cicely suddenly.
They were standing still, in front of the porch, and as Miss Methvyn spoke, her gaze rested lovingly on the quaint old house, every stone of which seemed a part of her life, and then wandered away over the garden and the trees and through the network of branches to where the summer moon was slowly rising. “It will be a lovely moonlight night,” she added softly.
“I love not the moon, she makes me sad,” said Geneviève decidedly.
Cicely laughed gently. “You silly little thing,” she said. Then she stooped and kissed Geneviève and they both went in.
When Cicely reached her own room, she found her mother there, waiting for her.
“Your father has just fallen asleep,” said Mrs. Methvyn; “it was not worth while for me to go downstairs again, and I wanted to see you alone, Cicely. And I did not want Geneviève to fancy there was anything the matter.”
“Is anything the matter? I thought you looked dull at dinner,” said Cicely quickly. “You don’t think papa is worse?”
“No, I think he is very well. But he is anxious and worried,” answered Mrs. Methvyn.