Mrs Buchanan had already read her daughter’s face; but she saw that the cloud, if there had been a cloud, was gone, and that it was not expedient to speak of it.
“If you will tell me, Hope, my dear,” said Helen’s good mother, “who everybody is, I shall answer your question; but I am very sure I saw a great number of people in Fendie to-day, who had no sadness about them.”
“Oh, but who were they, Mrs Buchanan?” asked Hope.
Mrs Buchanan smiled.
“There was Robert Johnston, the grocer—he got another daughter last night; and there was Maxwell Dickson at the library—his son Robbie got a prize yesterday at the academy; and there was—”
Hope was disdainful; and even the face of her friend Helen glowed into genial laughter, as she threw back her unruly hair and interrupted Mrs Buchanan in great impatience.
“But I did not mean them! I was not thinking of them. Maxwell Dickson! as if he knew what it was to be sad—and that great lout Robbie; but I don’t care about them—it’s our own folk—it’s—”
“When do you go back to Edinburgh?” interrupted Helen.
“Oh, next month,” was the answer, “my mother says I may stay till Hallowe’en; but, Helen, my mother is going to ask Miss Swinton to come with me to Fendie next summer, at the vacation.”
“You seem to be very fond of Miss Swinton, Hope?” said Mrs Buchanan.