“No,” agreed Abby, in a flattened tone. “A very poor honey, wasn’t I?”

The mournful note startled Miss Wendover, but in a very few seconds she realized that it had its origin in fatigue, aggravated by anxiety. It was incumbent upon her to divert poor Abby’s mind, and with this amiable intention she first told her, with an indulgent laugh, that she was a naughty puss; and then launched into a recital of the various events which had lately occurred in Bath. Her rambling discourse embraced such topics as what her new doctor said about Russian Vapour Baths; how eagerly dear Mrs Grayshott was awaiting the return of her son from India—if the poor young man survived the voyage, so ill as he had been in that horrid country; how much she was obliged to poor Laura Butterbank, who had spared no pains to cheer and support her during Abby’s absence, coming every day to sit with her, and always so chatty and companionable, besides being charmed to execute any little commission in the town. But at this point she broke off, to accuse her sister of not listening to a word she said.

Abby had indeed been allowing the gentle stream of inanities to flow past her, but at this reproach she recalled her thoughts, and said: “Yes, I am! Mrs Grayshott—Miss Butterbank! I’m glad she bore you company while I was away—since Fanny seems not to have done so!”

“Good gracious, Abby, how you do take one up! No one could have been more attentive, the sweet child that she is! But with so much of her time occupied by her music-lessons, and the Italian class, besides having so many of her friends living here, who are for ever inviting her to join them for a country walk, or some picnic-party—perfectly unexceptionable!—I’m sure it is not to be wondered at—I mean, when Laura gave me the pleasure of her company every day there was no reason why Fanny should have stayed at home, and very selfish it would have been in me to have asked it of her! Yes, and most unnatural it would be if she didn’t wish to be with girls of her own age!”