I had had a letter from mamma in answer to the one I wrote to her just after my illness. In it she said she was pleased with all I said, and my promise to try to get on better at Green Bank, but "in the meantime," she wrote, "what we want you to do is to get quite strong and well, so put all troubling thoughts out of your head and be happy with your kind friends."
That letter had come a month ago, and the last mail had only brought me a tiny little note enclosed in a letter from mamma to Mrs. Cranston, with the promise of a longer one "next time." And "next time" was about due, for the mail came every fortnight, one afternoon when Myra and I were sitting together in our favourite nook in the show-room.
"I have a fancy, Myra," I said, "that something is going to happen. My lion has been so queer to-day—I see a look on his face as if he knew something."
For we had each chosen one lion as more particularly our own.
"I think they always look rather like that," said Myra dreamily. "But I suppose something must happen soon. I shall be going home next week."
"Next week," I repeated. "Oh, Myra!"
I could not speak for a moment. Then I remembered how I had made up my mind to be brave.
"Do you mind going home?" I asked. "I mean, are you sorry to go?"
"I'm always sorry to leave grandpapa and grandmamma," she said, "and the lions, and this funny old house. But I'm very happy at home, and I shall like it still better with Miss Fenmore. No, I wouldn't be unhappy—I'd be very glad to think of seeing father and mother and my little brothers again—I wouldn't be unhappy, except for—you know, Geraldine—for leaving you," and my little friend's voice shook.
"Dear Myra," I said. "But you mustn't mind about me. I'm going to try——" but here I had to stop to choke down something in my throat. "After all," I went on, after a moment or two, "more than a quarter of the time that father and mamma have to be away is gone. And perhaps in the summer holidays I shall see Haddie."