“It is a grave book, Hope, not such as you would like,” said Helen, looking as she felt, embarrassed and conscious.
“But I like grave books—sometimes,” said Hope. “I am fifteen—I am not a girl now, Helen; but do you mind what Tibbie said, last Hallowe’en? You were to get your fortune out of a book. Oh, Helen, will you tell me? Have you ever got your fortune yet?”
Helen fairly turned her burning cheek away, with a nervous start. So it was fulfilled, the simple prophecy of Tibbie; the hour and the book had come, and this was “the fortune” of Helen. She did not make any answer. She held her precious volume under her shawl and looked over the wan water, away into the vacant air, with her changeful smile.
“I think I know,” said the sagacious Hope.
“What do you know, Hope?” said Helen.
But Hope was perverse.
“Helen, Miss Swinton is coming, but only for a day, and little Mary Wood is to stay all the vacation. Miss Swinton wants to see you, Helen, and she said she would take you to Edinburgh; but I think you should not go, Helen.”
“Why?”
Hope paused, and as she could think of no satisfactory answer, went on, on another course.
“Helen, William is perhaps coming home—only for awhile; you don’t know how much William has to do now; and, Helen, people say he is clever. Do you think he is?”