"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette, as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before her,—while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of her chair.
"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.
"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.
"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.
"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.
"No—about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour since,"—said Margarette.
"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her book.
"I do not know,—but from your description, I conjectured them to be your cousin Hubert and the Black Prince, as you call him."
"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,—and here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why could you not have told me when you first came in?"
"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette. "And after all, perhaps it is not them."