The gentle woman gave her a glance of sympathy, but she tempered her sympathy with common-sense.
“Beware, my child,” she said, as they walked down the drive, “of imagining causes of unhappiness. One is so apt to do so when one is young,” and she sighed.
“Ah, but I have some real troubles,” Ella replied, “troubles that no one could deny. I have no mother, you know, Fräulein, and only half-sisters who till lately were complete strangers to me.”
“Certainly the want of a mother is a great want,” her companion agreed. “But an elder sister may go far towards making up for it.”
“Ye-es, sometimes,” acquiesced Ella. But the tone was enough.
“Poor little girl,” thought Fräulein Braune when she left her, “she does seem lonely. And she is so lovable! Miss St Quentin must be of a cold nature.” Ella retraced her steps: it was cold, but she walked slowly. She felt sure Sir Philip would not be staying long; as he had come over so early, and she wandered about the grounds, choosing the side of the house from which she would not be visible to any one leaving it, in hopes of not re-entering it till he had gone.
But it grew too chilly at last. She determined to make her way in by the conservatory whence she could run up stairs to her own room without much risk of meeting any one. The conservatory felt pleasantly warm: she lingered in it for a moment or two, not observing at first that the door leading from it into the drawing-room was open, nor indeed attaching any consequence to the fact when she did observe it: the drawing-room was never used by the family in the earlier part of the day. Suddenly she heard voices. They were those of Madelene and her cousin.
“I can’t find it, Philip,” said the former. “Aunty must forgive my carelessness. I will send it back to-morrow before her Mudie box goes.”
“May not Ella know where it is?” Sir Philip suggested.
“Possibly. I think I saw her reading it. But she is at her German lesson and it is a pity to interrupt her.”