d
had still clung to her new friend, with a persistency strange in one so
timid and fearful. Convalescence came, with its unwilling fretfulness,
its fits of unreason. Still Lobelia clung to Grace, and no one else
could make her listen and obey. The nurse laughed, and said she might as
well go, and leave her diploma with Miss Wolfe; yet stayed, for the two
worked together in pleasant harmony and friendship. At last, Doctor
Hendon ordered a change of scene, and now, too, Grace must go with her.
The Parkins mansion was within driving distance of Pentland; the whole
school had turned out to see the departure, the sick girl lying on
cushions, her thin face already showing the signs of returning health,
and really transfigured by the light of love and gratitude that beamed
from it, as she looked from Grace to Peggy, and back again to Grace. She
beckoned to Peggy, who pressed to her side and bent over her. "What is
it, dear?" she whispered.

"Peggy!"

"Yes, Lobelia."

"Peggy, you don't mind?"

"Mind what? I don't mind anything, now that you are getting well."

"You--you were my first friend, the only friend I had. You don't
mind--that I love her? I couldn't help it, Peggy. She kept me alive, you
see. Often and often, when I was drifting away, and ready to die, she
held me, and would not let me go. You are sure you don't mind, Peggy?"

Peggy kissed her heartily, and told her not to talk nonsense. "If you
didn't love her," she said, "I'd have nothing to do with you, Lobelia
Parkins. Do you hear that? Nothing! I wouldn't speak to you in the
street, if I met you."

Lobelia smiled, and leaned back on the cushions with closed eyes and a
look of absolute content. "You are so funny, Peggy!" she murmured. "She
is funny, too. I like people who are funny. Good-bye, and thank
everybody. Everybody is so kind!"

The carriage drove away, and the last thing the girls saw was Grace's
face, looking down at her charge; grave as ever,--Grace rarely smiled,
and they hardly knew the sound of her laugh,--but bright as Lobelia's
own with love and purpose and gladness. So they passed out of sight.

And since then had come letters every week, telling of the child's
progress; one to Miss Russell always, and one to the Owls or to Peggy.
It was one of these that Gertrude took from her pocket now and opened,
as they sat together on Peggy's divan.

"You see, it is dated three days ago; probably been carried in a pocket,
from the look of it."