“My papa is in India,” said little Mary Wood, sliding her small hand into the trembling fingers of Lilias, as they sat under cover of the great beech, watching the autumn sun sink gorgeously over the western hill; “and when I am a big lady I’m to go to India too, and then I’m to be married to somebody—Miss Mansfield says so, Hope.”
And Lilias laughed tremulously with the others, communicating a sick melancholy tone to the very sound of mirth.
“But Miss Mansfield says so, Miss Maxwell; and Miss Mansfield is a grown-up lady; she’s bigger than Miss Buchanan—isn’t she, Hope?”
“Never mind Miss Mansfield; nobody cares about her,” said Hope; “but look, little Mary, look at yon star!—oh, Helen, look! in among the gold clouds, and it so white and cold like—I know what it’s like.”
“Oh! what is it like, Hope?” cried little Mary Wood, who had the greatest possible admiration of Hope’s stories.
“It’s like somebody—somebody like what folk are in books,” said Hope, “standing in among the rich common people; it’s far better than the clouds—it’s as good as the sun, only it’s not so great; but for all that, look at it, how it’s shaking, and how pale it is; but it knows it is better than the clouds.”
Little Mary looked up wonderingly in awe of Hope’s occult acquaintance with the star; but this did not strike her as Hope’s stories generally did; for she said, after a little pause,—
“I wish it were to-morrow—I wish it were the day after to-morrow.”
“Why, Mary?” said Lilias.
“Because Miss Swinton said papa was going to write me a letter, and that I would get it to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow. A whole big letter to myself—a letter from papa, all the way from India—oh, Miss Maxwell!”