The next day was rainy. Then came Saturday, fine and mild again—the last but one of the Wentworths’ stay at Tormouth. Imogen stole down for a few minutes to the sheltered nook where she had found her new friend.
Yes, she was there.
“I felt that I must see you—for a moment,” said the girl, “though I cannot stay, and I know you have friends coming to see you to-day. But I had to thank you again, and I want to tell you that I have told my mother I will do exactly what she wishes; so we are going to London on Monday to look for a house, and poor mamsey is so pleased. And I am going to follow your advice about everything. I am not going to be idle and useless any more.”
The tears were in the stranger’s eyes by this time.
“Dear child,” she said, “I am so glad.”
“Would you like to know my name?” the girl went on simply. “I thought at first I could not bear to tell it you; but if that is foolish and false pride, and if you would tell me yours?”
“No, dear,” the invalid replied. “Do not tell it to me. And I will not tell you mine. I think it would a little spoil the charm of our friendship, and there might come times at which you would wish you had not confided in me. No, I shall never forget you. And you may feel that your secret is as safe as it can be, for—”
“I know what you are going to say, but please don’t. You may get better for a while: do let me think so.”
The dying girl shook her head, though she smiled—yes, her own sweet smile. And this was Imogen’s last remembrance of her. So when, some few months later, in the daily list of deaths came the name of “Eveleen, only surviving daughter of General Sir Jocelyn Lesley, etc, etc, aged 28,” it called forth no remark from the girl whose eye it caught for a moment, save that of ”‘Eveleen Lesley.’ What a pretty name! And Eveleen spelt the Irish way.”
“Is it a marriage?” asked Mrs Wentworth across the table.