ned a leaf, and read a page of extracts from Donald Grant
Mitchell; but she had not understood one word, so she began again and
read slowly, trying to understand; then she found her ticket in her
glove, and examined it with profound interest, the color burning in her
cheeks; then she gazed long out of the window at the snow and the bare
trees and the scattered farmhouses; then she turned to study the lady's
bonnet in front of her, and to pity the mother with the child in front of
_her_; she looked before and behind and out the windows; she looked
everywhere but at the face beside her; she saw his overcoat, his black
travelling bag, and wondered what he had brought his mother; she looked
at his brown kid gloves, at his black rubber watch chain, from which a
gold anchor was dangling; but it was dangerous to raise her eyes higher,
so they sought his boots and the newspaper on his knee. Had he spoken
last, or had she? What was the last remark? About Morris? It was
certainly not about Donald Grant Mitchell. Yes, she had spoken last; she
had said Morris was--

Would he speak of her long unanswered letter? Would he make an excuse for
not noticing it? A sentence in rhetoric was before her eyes: "Any letter,
not insulting, merits a reply." Perhaps he had never studied rhetoric.
Her lips were curving into a smile; wouldn't it be fun to ask him?

"I am going to London next week. I came home to say good-bye to mother."

"Will you stay long?" was all that occurred to her to remark. Her voice
was quite devoid of interest.

"Where? In London, or at home?"

"Both," she said smiling.

"I must return to New York on Monday; and I shall stay in London only
long enough to attend to business. I shall go to Manchester and to Paris.
My route is not all mapped out for me yet. Do you like school as well as
you expected to?"

"Oh, yes, indeed."

"You expect to finish this year?"

"I suppose I shall leave school."

"And go home?"

"Oh, yes. What else should I do?"

"And learn housekeeping from Linnet."

"It is not new work to me."

"How is Miss Prudence?"

"As lovely as ever."

"And the little girl?"

"Sweet and good and bright."

"And Mrs. Kemlo?"

"She is--happier."

"Hasn't she always been happy?"

"No; she was like your mother; only hers has lasted so long. I am so
sorry for such--unhappiness."

"So am I. I endured enough of it at one time."

"I cannot even think of it. She is going home with me in June. Morris