So gently,--and so calmly sweet the face was that said it that Mrs. Douglass's mood was overcome.
"Well you ain't agoing to forget Queechy?" she said, shaking Fleda's hand with a hearty grasp.
"Never--never!"
"I'll tell you what I think," said Mrs. Douglass, the tears in her eyes answering those in Fleda's.--"It'll be a happy house that gets you into it, wherever 'tis! I only wish it wa'n't out o' Queechy."
Fleda thought on the whole as she walked home that she did not wish any such thing. Queechy seemed dismantled, and she thought she would rather go to a new place now that she had taken such a leave of every thing here.
Two things remained however to be taken leave of; the house and Barby. Happily Fleda had little time for the former. It was a busy evening, and the morning would be more busy; she contrived that all the family should go to rest before her, meaning then to have one quiet look at the old rooms by herself; a leave-taking that no other eyes should interfere with. She sat down before the kitchen fire-place, but she had hardly realized that she was alone when one of the many doors opened and Barby's tall figure walked in.
"Here you be," she half whispered. "I knowed there wouldn't be a minute's peace to-morrow; so I thought I'd bid you good-bye to-night."
Fleda gave her a smile and a hand, but did not speak. Barby drew up a chair beside her, and they sat silent for some time, while quiet tears from the eyes of each said a great many things.
"Well, I hope you'll be as happy as you deserve to be,"--were Barby's first words, in a voice very altered from its accustomed firm and spirited accent.
"Make some better wish for me than that, dear Barby."