Frances’ hand was lying on her knee. Betty took it in hers as she spoke and stroked it. To the elder sister the little action said much. It seemed as if in some intuitive way the coldness or constraint which had been creeping in between them for the first time in their lives was melting away, though by no visible agency. Tears crept up very near to Frances’ own eyes, but she resolutely kept them back, though a feeling of gratitude for this scarcely looked-for prompt encouragement on the path she saw before her warmed her heart.
“What a pity,” exclaimed Eira, “that Madeleine couldn’t have stayed two or three weeks longer, just to see how pretty this place can be. I don’t think, however rich I were, that I could ever make up my mind to spend this part of the year in London.”
“It is very pretty there, too, just now though,” said Frances absently. “If it were a little nearer I dare say Madeleine would come down again for a few days—with her brother, perhaps,” she went on more brightly. “I am sure Mr Morion would always be glad for them to use the big house.”
Eira, who had been leaning back on the rustic bench in rather a depressed attitude, pricked up her ears at this.
“Oh, how nice that would be!” she said. “Better than my poor Indian summer which never came to pass. What made you think of it, Francie?” And as the only reply was a smile, “I do believe that you’ve heard something! Have you had a letter from Madeleine that you have not told us about?”
Frances shook her head.
“No, truly I have not,” she said. “But Horace Littlewood did—does mean to come down again. He said so, definitely, and it just struck me how nice it would be if Madeleine could come with him.”
Eira’s face by this time was gleaming with excitement.
“Francie!” she exclaimed, “you never told us before! Betty, do you hear?”
But for all reply, Betty seemed to creep back further into her corner. Frances turned to her. “You don’t dislike him?” she said. “We got to know him so well!”