“Is mother not coming in here again?” asked Lilias. “I hate the evenings papa has to go out; we all seem so unsettled and straggling. Yes, do go to bed, children. I am beginning to feel a little tired, Mary; aren’t you?”
“No—yes, a little. I really don’t know,” said Mary.
Lilias laughed merrily.
“Why, I believe you are half asleep, child!” she exclaimed. “We are evidently not intended to be fine ladies, if one ball knocks us up so. I wonder what all the people who were there last night are doing with themselves now? Very likely they are having carpet dances tonight, and all sorts of fun. The Cleavelands party is broken up, though. The Cheviotts were going back to Romary last night.”
“Yes,” said Mary.
“No note has come for me, I suppose?” asked Lilias, with a little hesitation. “I did not like to ask you before the girls, but one of them said something about a groom on horseback having been at the stable door a little while ago.”
“There was no note for you,” said Mary, her voice sounding even to herself set and hard, “but there was one for mamma. She told me to bring it to you. Here it is.”
Lilias took it, but something in Mary’s manner startled her.
“What is it?” she said, hastily. “Why do you look so strange, Mary?”
“Read the note, Lily, please,” said Mary. “I’m going back to mamma—I won’t be a minute,” and as she spoke she turned to leave the room.