What might not happen in two years? To her, standing at the very threshold of life, with every possibility before her, two years would have been almost like two score.
Yet when, in the autumn but one following the Easter of her first visit to Palden, she found herself again at Dorriford, she could hardly believe that two whole years had elapsed since the day when Mrs Lermont kissed her so affectionately, and made her promise to return to them as soon as she could do so.
She was again within a day or two of leaving them, after a quiet but pleasant fortnight with Maida—poor Maida, she was no stronger in health, possibly a shade more fragile than when she and Philippa had last met. But as ever, the fact of her invalidism was never obtruded on those about her, even, on the contrary, to a great extent ignored.
They—the two cousins—had been strolling for a little, a very little only was all Miss Lermont was able for now—up and down the already leaf-strewn drive. The day was mild and calm, a typical autumn day.
Suddenly Maida spoke.
“Do you remember, Philippa,” she said—“it has just come back to me—the last time you were here, our standing in the porch and watching the Bertrams drive away?”
Philippa smiled. There was no bitterness in her smile, though it was perhaps a little sad.
“Yes,” she said, with a little bending of her head as she spoke, “yes, I remember.”
Maida glanced at her.
“You are changed since then,” she went on.