Every circumstance of the preceding night
rehearsed itself in my memory. I repeated Arthur Campbell's every
word. I had not forgotten one. I recalled Mr. Dalton's steady look,
even Miss Nibbs' funny little personality rode upon the embers, and
brought a faint smile to my pensive countenance. I teazed myself with
interrogative conjectures of every kind, now leaning towards one, and
now towards another. Somehow the vagaries of our hope or of our fancy,
like ourselves, look their best by gas-light, and show a very
disappointing complexion in the open daylight. While I sat thus
weaving and tangling the webs of my aimless thought, the door opened
and my step-mother glided in with a dainty little note between her
fingers.
"Lazy girl," she muttered in a half yawn, throwing the note into my
lap. "Rouse yourself, and read this. An answer is wanted."
It was from Alice Merivale, to my surprise, and appeared to have been
scratched off in a hurry:
"If you have nothing on hand for the afternoon, dear Amey, I wish you
would come over at about one o'clock and take luncheon with me. It is
so stupid. A. M."
I folded it up and smiled, as I went in search of my writing
materials.
In half an hour after I was waiting to be admitted into their house. I
was shown into Alice's apartment according to her direction. She was
lying on a lounge by the fire, with her delicate hands clasped over
her shapely head. Her long, yellow hair fell in soft braids on each
slender shoulder.
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