“Oh, yes,” said Susan; “I can hardly wait.” Suddenly she put down her letter, and looked at Honora.
“And you,” she asked, “where are you going?”
“I don't know. Perhaps—perhaps I shall go to the sea for a while with my cousins.”
It was foolish, it was wrong. But for the life of her Honora could not say she was going to spend the long hot summer in St. Louis. The thought of it had haunted her for weeks: and sometimes, when the other girls were discussing their plans, she had left them abruptly. And now she was aware that Susan's blue eyes were fixed upon her, and that they had a strange and penetrating quality she had never noticed before: a certain tenderness, an understanding that made Honora redden and turn.
“I wish,” said Susan, slowly, “that you would come and stay awhile with me. Your home is so far away, and I don't know when I shall see you again.”
“Oh, Susan,” she murmured, “it's awfully good of you, but I'm afraid—I couldn't.”
She walked to the window, and stood looking out for a moment at the budding trees. Her heart was beating faster, and she was strangely uncomfortable.
“I really don't expect to go to the sea, Susan,” she said. “You see, my aunt and uncle are all alone in St. Louis, and I ought to go back to them. If—if my father had lived, it might have been different. He died, and my mother, when I was little more than a year old.”
Susan was all sympathy. She slipped her hand into Honora's.
“Where did he live?” she asked.