Well, to please her, they talked of the picnic, and Richard good-naturedly promised to hire a wagonette for the occasion, but she had forgotten all about it the next day, and there was to be an archery meeting in the long meadow instead.
“Bessie, she is killing herself,” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, for in those days she found Bessie a great comfort. “Do you see how thin she is getting? And she eats next to nothing; she is losing her strength, and all that exercise is too much for her. The weather is too hot for those morning rides. I must speak to Richard.”
“She does not really enjoy them,” replied Bessie; “but I think she feels better when she is in the air, and then it is something to do. Mrs. Sefton, I want to speak to you about something else. I have been here nearly a month, and it is time for me to go home.”
“You are not thinking of leaving us,” interrupted Mrs. Sefton, in genuine alarm. “I cannot spare you, Bessie; I must write to your father. What would Edna do without you? My dear, I cannot let you go.”
“Hatty is not well,” observed Bessie anxiously. “She always flags in the warm weather. I don’t believe Cliffe really suits her; but father never likes to send her away. Christine wrote to me yesterday, and she said Hatty had had one of her old fainting fits, and had been very weak ever since. I cannot be happy in leaving her any longer, though they say nothing about my coming home.”
“But she has your mother and Christine. You are not really wanted,” urged Mrs. Sefton rather selfishly, for she was thinking of her own and Edna’s loss, and not of Bessie’s anxiety.
“Hatty always wants me,” returned Bessie firmly. “I think I am more to her than any one else, except mother. I have written to father this morning to ask what I had better do. I told him that I had had a long holiday, and that I was ready to come home at once if Hatty wanted me.”
“Oh, very well, if you have made your plans,” returned Mrs. Sefton, in rather a chilling manner; but Bessie would not let her proceed.
“Dear Mrs. Sefton,” she said, much distressed at her obvious displeasure, “you must not think that I leave you willingly. I have been so happy here; it has been such a real holiday that I am afraid I am not a bit anxious to go home, but if father thinks it is my duty——”
“Your father is a sensible man. I don’t believe he will recall you, anyhow. I will write to him myself, and tell him how anxious we are to keep you. That will do no harm, eh, Bessie?”