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"She made us all p-promise not to tell." Eugenia's face turned pale, but she lifted her head defiantly as Mrs. Sherman turned to her, calling her name. "What is the trouble, child? You surely didn't go to the camp that morning when I warned you not to?" "Yes, we did," answered Eugenia, a little frightened now by the expression of Mrs. Sherman's face, but still defiant. "When was it?"
Stuart and Doctor Bradford were coming back from an early stroll about the place. The wistaria clung too closely to the trellis for them to see her, but, as they crossed the grassy court between the two wings, they looked up at Eugenia's balcony opposite. Betty looked too. That bower of golden-hearted roses had drawn her glances more than once that morning.
Was that growing indifference of hers to dress and trips to the city, and seeing Eugenia's smart crowd there, a sign of mental dry-rot? Was it a betrayal of what was alive in her own personality to go on adapting herself to the inevitable changes in her relations with Neale, compromising, rather than . . ."
Miss Chris had become a willing servitor; but she occasionally felt it to be her duty to put a modest check upon Eugenia's maternal frenzy. "My dear, there were ten of us," she remarked one day, "and I am sure we never required as much attention as this one." "And nine of you died," Eugenia solemnly retorted.
On the following morning, whilst we were at the workshop, the two girls made their appearance, accompanied by a hearty, honest-looking young fellow, who was introduced to us as Juan Gonzalez, Eugenia's brother.
His horizon narrowed to the four walls of the shop; he told himself that he had a roof above his head and fuel for his stomach that Bessie Pollard had skin that was fairer than Eugenia's and lips as red. What did it matter, after all? Sometimes Mrs.
She peeped out between the thick mass of wistaria vines, across the grassy court, formed by the two rear wings of the house, to another balcony opposite the one in which she stood. It opened off Eugenia's room, and was almost hidden by a climbing rose, which made a perfect bride's bower, with its gorgeous full-blown Gloire Dijon roses.
"I'll put it away in an envelope when I get back to the house," thought Mary. "When they all fade I'll save the leaves and make a potpourri of them like we made of Eugenia's wedding roses, and put them away in my little Japanese rose-jar, to keep always." Then the music began, and she entered heartily into the beautiful Christmas service.
We're to stop at some wayside inn for dinner. Then we'll see him again when we go out to Eugenia's for a day and night. We've saved the best till the last." "Letters," called Joyce, coming into the room with a handful. "The postman was good to every one of us." She tossed two across the room to Betty, who sat reading on the divan, and one to Henrietta, who had just finished cleaning some brushes.
No, Eugenia's letter was chiefly devoted, as all her previous letters had been, to her interest and concern in the three American Red Cross girls. She wished them to return immediately to France and to the old chateau, where the Countess Castaigne would be only too happy to shelter them. Later, if they wished, they could find other Red Cross work to do in France.
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