is really getting quite thin, and I think she looks ill, though her father says it's like my fidgetiness! But I don't care; she shall take a tonic in spite of what he says. I don't like the look of her at all sometimes. She has such a—I hardly know how to explain what I mean—such a curious, frightened expression. Have you noticed it? You know, Gretchen" (confidentially), "in spite of a mother's natural feelings, and all that, I shall be glad to have her married. For my part, I don't approve of long engagements, but her father is so obstinate. The child feels unsettled, so of course she's miserable. I expect she misses Noel too, don't you? But she says so little, I hardly know what to think."
There was no doubt that Cecily was growing thin. Her eyes were unnaturally large and bright; they had a wistful, troubled look, and lately she had taken to starting nervously when any one spoke suddenly to her. Her mother talked of taking her away somewhere for change of air, as soon as Miss Verrol had gone.
"And I hope the Voyage will do you good, too," she added, looking at Gretchen critically. "Do you know you are looking quite ill? Bless these young people, there's always something the matter with them now. I'm sure there never used to be, in my young days."
The last day at the Armstrongs, after all her boxes were ready, Gretchen spent in paying farewell calls.
It was quite late in the afternoon before, the last good-bye said, and the last polite good wish for her happiness expressed, she found herself once more in front of the house she was so soon to leave. It was some moments before the door was opened in answer to her ring, and she stood on the top of the flight of steps and looked drearily up and down the street. It was a wet night—the pavements were all shining with rain, the gas lamps were reflected waveringly in the puddles on the road. Only one person was in
