"I would do just as I felt inclined, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn.
"I shall let her encounter the dullness alone, Ma'am," said
Fleda, lightly.
But it was not in a light mood that she put on her bonnet after dinner, and set out to pay a visit to her uncle at the library; she had resolved that she would not be near the dormeuse in whatsoever relative position that evening. Very, very quiet she was; her grave little face walked through the crowd of busy, bustling, anxious people, as if she had nothing in common with them; and Fleda felt that she had very little. Half unconsciously, as she passed along the streets, her eye scanned the countenances of that moving panorama; and the report it brought back made her draw closer within herself.
She wondered that her feet had ever tripped lightly up those library stairs.
"Ha! my fair Saxon," said the doctor, "what has brought you down here to-day?"
"I felt in want of something fresh, uncle Orrin, so I thought
I would come and see you."
"Fresh!" said he. "Ah! you are pining for green fields, I know. But, you little piece of simplicity, there are no green fields now at Queechy, they are two feet deep with snow by this time."
"Well, I am sure that is fresh," said Fleda, smiling.
The doctor was turning over great volumes one after another in a delightful confusion of business.
"When do you think you shall go north, uncle Orrin?"