ers, and ever since then
he's been bobbin' up to ask if 'Madame finds everything satisfactory.' I
suppose likely I shouldn't have spoken as I did, he means well--it isn't
his fault, or the waiter's either, that they can't talk without wavin'
their hands as if they were givin' three cheers--but I was terribly
nervous that mornin' and I barked like a tied-up dog. Oh dear, Hosy! if
ever I missed you and your help it's in this blessed country."

Frances laughed at all this; she seemed just then to be in high spirits;
but I thought, or imagined, that her high spirits were assumed for our
benefit. At the first hint of questioning concerning her own life, where
she lodged or what her plans might be, she rose and announced that she
must go.

Each morning of that week she came, remaining but a short time, and
always refusing to speak of herself or her plans. Hephzy and I, finding
that a reference to those plans meant the abrupt termination of the
call, ceased trying to question. And we did not mention our life at the
rectory, either; that, too, she seemed unwilling to discuss. Once,
when I spoke of our drive to Wrayton, she began a reply, stopped in the
middle of a sentence, and then left the room.

Hephzy hastened after her. She returned alone.

"She was cryin', Hosy," she said. "She said she wasn't, but she was. The
poor thing! she's unhappy and I know it; she's miserable. But she's so
proud she won't own it and, although I'm dyin' to put my arms around her
and comfort her, I know if I did she'd go away and never come back.
Do you notice she hasn't called me 'Auntie' once. And she always used
to--at the rectory. I'm afraid--I'm afraid she's just as determined as
she was when she ran away, never to live with us again. What SHALL we
do?"

I did not know and I did not dare to think. I was as certain that these
visits would cease very soon as I was that they were the only things
which made my life bearable. How I did look forward to them! And while
she was there, with us, how short the time seemed and how it dragged
when she had gone. The worst thing possible for me, this seeing her and
being with her; I knew it. I knew it perfectly well. But, knowing it,
and realizing that it could not last and that it was but the prelude to
a worse loneliness which was sure to come, made no difference. I dreaded
to be well again, fearing that would mean the end of those visits.

But I was getting well and rapidly. I sat up for longer and l