Bessie Harper looked and felt sorry for her. She knew what a warm faithful little heart she had to do with, and unaware as she was of Frances's slight fear of Jacinth's displeasure, she perhaps overestimated the trial it was to the younger sister to be debarred from giving her confidences to the elder one.
'I'm very sorry,' she said, sympathisingly. 'I really am very sorry indeed. But still I'm sure it's better for Jacinth not to know about it till I hear what mother says. You see she may be invited to Lady Myrtle's any day, and if anything about the Elvedons or our family was said, it would be impossible for her not to feel uncomfortable and—and—not open, you know, unless she told what Margaret told you, and that might be just what father would dislike.'
'And suppose I go to Robin Redbreast too,' said Frances, 'what am I to do?'
'I thought you said Jacinth was the one who would go,' said Bessie.
'Oh well,' replied Frances, who had raised the difficulty partly out of half-petulant contradiction, 'I am pretty sure it will be Jass. I don't think Lady Myrtle noticed me much, and I don't want to go. I don't like her; at least I don't care about her unless she could be made nice to you. And any way she wouldn't ask me questions, even if by chance she did hear your name'——
'And Jacinth isn't the least likely to speak about us, as things are. So it's all right; and any way, Frances, you can write a very long letter to your mother to-morrow.'
'Yes,' the little girl agreed. 'That's better than nothing; only, just think of the weeks and weeks before I can get an answer! Whatever other troubles you have, Bessie, you are lucky to have your father and mother in England, and to know them. I don't know mamma for myself a bit; only by her letters, and because I just feel she must be very good and kind. When I was very little it seemed something like—no, perhaps you wouldn't understand'——
'I think I would,' said Bessie, who was eager to make up by every means in her power for any distress she was causing to her friend. 'Tell me.'
'I was only thinking what queer feelings children have,' said Frances. 'When I was little, before I had ever seen mamma—of course I can remember her since the time I did see her, five years ago, and since then she has seemed real—but before that, it was only a kind of faith. Writing letters to her was a very little—don't think it's naughty of me to say it—a very little like saying our prayers. They went out, away to somewhere, to some one I'd never seen; just like, you know, when we pray.'
'Yes,' said Bessie gently, 'but the answers came.'