“Little Dormouse. There she lies at the end of the sofa, covered by my shawl. She has been sleeping ever since breakfast. I think she only wakes up to amuse papa. But she is beginning to stretch herself, and here comes the head-nurse himself.”
“Our dear Mary, returned!” cried Lyndsay, entering the room. “It seems an age since you left us.”
“It has been a melancholy separation to me,” said Mary. “This parting I hope will be the last. My father has consented to come and live with my brother; and now that dear Emily is gone, I shall have no inducement to leave home, so you will have me all to yourselves, whenever I can steal an hour from my domestic duties; and we shall once more be so happy together.”
Lyndsay looked at Flora, but neither spoke. Mary saw in a moment that there was some hidden meaning in that quick, intelligent glance; and she turned anxiously from one to the other.
“What mischief have you been plotting, during my absence?” cried the affectionate girl, taking a hand of each. “Some mystery is here—I read it in your eyes. I come to you striving to drown the remembrance of my own heavy sorrow, that we might enjoy a happy meeting: I find Flora in tears, and you, Lyndsay, looking grave and melancholy. What does it all mean?”
“Has not Flora told you?”
“Told me what?”
“That we are about to start for Canada.”
“Alas! no. This is sad news—worse than I expected. But are you really determined upon going?”
“Our preparations are almost completed.”