soon he will bring his wife home to Silverbridge? I wonder how soon he will call upon me to fulfil my promise? He may call upon me, but I will not go—in the field of rye alone he vowed to receive it, and thither to meet him my steps shall never turn.
I walk restlessly up and down the swerving carriage—for the train is express, and we are racing against time—then sit down and pull out my letters received this morning. That from mother contains news that a month ago would have driven me wild with excitement, that a few years ago would have made Jack and me happy as king and queen, but now brings no shock of surprise, pleasure, or expectation; indeed, until the present moment, I have scarcely thought about it. The news is this: papa is going to take a long, long journey to Australia, and he will be away many months. I do not quite understand why he is going; it is something about money, and perhaps he is tired of staying quietly at home (he was a great traveller in his youth); at any rate he departs in about three weeks, mother says. What a time the young ones will have of it! To Jack and me, this gift of the gods comes too late. Now if such a chance as this had only been given to us while we were young, we would have got into every bit of mischief the place contained, and possessed consciences clear of ever having missed a single opportunity of evil-doing when he returned! As it is, with no one to harry and vituperate me, with no one to drive me out for walks, or compel me to overlook the morals and manners of the boys, or to labour daily at the dry pump of conversation, I shall become drivelling willow-wearing lack-lustre-eyed damsel for folks to mock at. I shall hang out all the forlorn insignia of the love-lorn maiden—shall I? never! If the roses will not come back to my cheeks, the smiles shall to my lips, I will be as merry and noisy and saucy as ever I was, before people; I will defy any one to pry into my heart and see what is there, and that peace will come to me after a while I doubt not.
