“What nonsense!” with a touch of her old impatience. “You are as bad as mamma; she is always finding fault with me. People who live in glass houses should not throw stones at their neighbors. You do not look like yourself either, Bessie.”
“Oh, that is different,” and Bessie’s lips trembled a little; “I have gone through so much since we parted. I try to take it properly, and every one helps me, but I think I miss my Hatty more every day.”
“You want a change,” returned Edna kindly, for she was much touched by the alteration in her friend’s looks.
Bessie had lost her pretty fresh color, and looked pale and subdued in her black dress; her gray eyes had a sad look in them, even her voice had lost its old cheery tones, and her very movements were quieter; the bright elasticity that had been her charm was missing now, and yet Edna thought she had never looked so sweet.
“My poor little Daisy,” she continued, “you have a crushed look. You want country air to revive you. Will you come to us? Mamma will be delighted; you are such a favorite of hers; and as for myself, I want you more than I can say.”
“Not yet; I could not leave mother yet,” returned Bessie; but a faint color stole into her face. No, she could not leave her post, and yet it would have been nice to see The Grange again, and Richard’s friendly face; he had been so kind to her; and there was Whitefoot, and the dear dogs, and the lanes would be full of hips and haws. “No, not yet; but I should like to come again one day.”
“Well, well, I will not tease you; bye and bye I will make another appeal, but if your mother be not well——” She paused, and then something of the old mischief came into her eyes. “You see I am improving, Bessie; I am not always trying to get my own way; my goodness makes mamma quite uneasy. I think she has got it into her head that I shall die young; all good young people die—in books. No, it was wrong of me to joke,” as a pained look crossed Bessie’s face. “Seriously, I am trying to follow your advice; but, oh! it is such hard work.”
“Dear Edna, do you think I do not see the difference in you?”
“Am I different?” she asked eagerly, and a wistful look came into her lovely eyes. “Richard said the other day how much nicer I was; we are quite friends, Ritchie and I, now, and I won’t let mamma be so hard on him. He was very kind to me when—when—Neville went away; he tells me about him sometimes, for once or twice he has seen him in London; but just fancy, Bessie, he never even asked after me. ‘Are your people well?’ That is all he said; but of course he will never forgive me; men are like that.”
“He may not think that you want to be forgiven,” returned Bessie.