I did not see Yvonne and Mary for some days after that; the next morning was showery, though it cleared up between times. But after that, the rain set in, and we had a week or two of almost constant downpour, which interfered very much with our usual ways. They came to spend an afternoon with me at last. Mamma arranged that the carriage should both fetch them and take them back, for the roads were really sopping, though the rain overhead was less incessant. We were very glad to be together again. Evey wore my little brooch; it reminded me of her birthday.
“Oh, by-the-by,” I said to her, “did your jackets, or whatever it was, come the next day?”
A cloud came over their bright faces.
“No,” said Evey, “nothing came—and no letter. We were very disappointed.”
“Perhaps something will come at Christmas instead,” said Mary, hopefully.
“You greedy little thing,” I said, thoughtlessly. “I wonder you care, especially if it was something to wear.”
“You—you don’t quite understand, Connie,” said Mary, her eyes filling with tears; “there was no letter, and father and mother mind that.”
“Letters are often lost in the post. Why don’t you write to the old lady,”—what was it that gave me a queer thrill as I said the words?—“and ask if there is anything the matter?” I said, meaning in a clumsy way to suggest some comfort.
“We can’t,” said Yvonne, in a low voice.
But they explained no more, and I was not sorry. I did not want to spoil our afternoon by disagreeable subjects.