here all the while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time."
"I do not wish anybody to be distressed," she returned. "It is best for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it." Then, in a lower tone: "There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know,—" her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude.
"I cannot tell you much," I hastened to reply; "but whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?"
"Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and—and composed."
"Your cousin’s health is good," I returned; "but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you."
"You see her often, then?"
"I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle’s book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time."
