"I have been crying dreadfully," I admitted, taking her hands in mine, and clinging to her as I used to cling in the old days when anything troubled me, "Oh, Marian, how good it is to see you again! I have been cut off so long from everything connected with my old home that you seem to bring me back my lost happiness."
"Don't talk so, dear," she answered, kissing me; "you are a wife now, and you would not, I know, exchange the present for the past. My sudden appearance has excited you, I daresay; and, Louie, you don't look quite well. Perhaps you want the country air."
"No," I said, wearily. "I would not exchange this smoky old street for all the green trees and fields in the world. It is not the country air that I want, but the peace of mind—the freedom from care."
"My dear child," she said, sitting down on the sofa and drawing me to her side, "we must have a long talk. As to freedom from care, do you really think that any married woman can reasonably expect that? I am single, you see, and so I suppose you will be surprised at my remark. But—"
"But, Marian, you always understand people, no matter in what state of life they are. Yes, we must indeed have a long talk."
But Marian was not one of those people who are always in such a hurry to gain one's confidence that they will not give one time to open one's heart. When she had got me beside her on the sofa, she began to talk about herself and her own concerns, explaining the circumstances that had brought her to London, and telling me some good news in her own simple, natural way.
"I am no longer poor Marian Bailey," she said, gaily. "Indeed, Louie, I hardly know myself in my new character of rich Marian. What do you think of six hundred a year, and a home with my old aunt in Curzon Street? It was a great surprise to hear that my old uncle, who had never noticed me in his life, had remembered me at his death. Then his widow wrote to me, begging me to come and live with her; and here I am."
"And I am very glad you are here," I answered, looking up into her frank face, and feeling that I had got a trusty friend.
Marian was a large woman, a little heavily-built, perhaps, but comfortable, and pleasant to look upon. She was not pretty, but hers was one of those good faces which always attract you wherever you meet them. If you had been in a land of strangers, you would have turned instinctively to that face in your hour of need. The very clasp of her hand had comfort in it; it was a firm hand, not small and fragile like mine.
"How the old days come back!" she said, smiling down at me after a little pause. "You still have your wistful eyes, Louise; and your pretty brown hair is as bright as ever. What a confiding child you were, and how you always clung to me if you fancied yourself in any difficulty or danger! It seems strange for us two to be sitting here in a London room, doesn't it? Last time we sat together we were in the parlour in the dear old cottage; it was summer, the doors and windows were open, and every breeze brought in a shower of jessamine petals and scattered them over the floor. Your grandfather was pacing up and down his favourite path in the garden; and you were repeating some poem that had pleased you. When you liked verses, you always wanted me to set them to music, and sing them."