“Thank you, Hope,” repeated Helen; “how you are growing—you will be above us all by and by. When did you come home?”
“Only yesterday,” said Hope; “but are you sure you are quite well, Helen?”
“Quite sure—why?”
“Only because you look pale—paler than you used to do; and, Helen, what makes you sigh?”
“Did I sigh?” said Helen, her delicate wavering colour gradually heightening beneath the girl’s steady affectionate look. “I did not know of it, Hope—it must have been for nothing, you know, when I was not aware of it.”
“Ah, but it was when you were sitting in the dark before you saw me,” said Hope gravely, “and you must have been thinking of something.”
Helen’s colour heightened more and more, yet she smiled.
“Are you going to be an inquisitor, Hope? Do you know people sometimes think very deeply, as you saw me to-night, about nothing? Ah, you shake your head and are very grave and wise, and experienced, I see. Come, I will show you what Cowper says about it.”
“Oh, I know,” said Hope. “I learned all that for Miss Swinton because she likes Cowper; but, Helen, you are not so clever as one of our young ladies; it’s Miss Mansfield, you know, that’s going to Calcutta, and she’s old—she is near eighteen, I am sure—and she sighs; but when Miss Swinton spoke to her about it, she said she was only drawing a long breath. I think,” said Hope disconsolately, “that the people in Fendie are very dull and sad now; for everybody draws long breaths.”
“Have you seen so many, Hope?” said Helen, with an uneasy flush upon her face, and with some evident interest in the question; those constantly moving features were sad telltales.