Perfectly unimpressed by this harrowing narrative, Francine turned her head lazily toward the house. The door was thrown open at the same moment. A lithe little person rapidly descended the steps that led to the lawn.
“It’s Emily come back again,” said Francine.
“And she seems to be rather in a hurry,” Cecilia remarked.
Francine’s satirical smile showed itself for a moment. Did this appearance of hurry in Emily’s movements denote impatience to resume the recital of “the dagger-scene”? She had no book in her hand; she never even looked toward Francine. Sorrow became plainly visible in her face as she approached the two girls.
Cecilia rose in alarm. She had been the first person to whom Emily had confided her domestic anxieties. “Bad news from your aunt?” she asked.
“No, my dear; no news at all.” Emily put her arms tenderly round her friend’s neck. “The time has come, Cecilia,” she said. “We must wish each other good-by.”
“Is Mrs. Rook here already?”
“It’s you, dear, who are going,” Emily answered sadly. “They have sent the governess to fetch you. Miss Ladd is too busy in the schoolroom to see her—and she has told me all about it. Don’t be alarmed. There is no bad news from home. Your plans are altered; that’s all.”
“Altered?” Cecilia repeated. “In what way?”
“In a very agreeable way—you are going to travel. Your father wishes you to be in London, in time for the evening mail to France.”