Mrs. Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.
“I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!”
“But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!” she replied in her clear, pleasant tones, whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.
“Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”
Mrs. Asplin gave a glance around. The gas fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed. Evidently the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about—Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.
“Peggy, dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?”
“I'm busy, Mrs. Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in.”
“But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?”
“I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself.”
“Are you writing to India—to your mother?”