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She drew it from her bag, and presented it to Marcelle. It was an account-book bound in parchment, the cover of which was separated like a portfolio into three pockets, destined for receipts, bills, and memoranda.
Sometimes it seemed to her that the loneliness would kill her if she knew it must go on indefinitely. But Marcelle's promise helped her to bear it. Marcelle was her older sister, the only person in the world left to her, and Marcelle was teaching the village school at home.
For Marcelle would deposit the Doherty letter in Eileen's compartment in the curtained row of little niches where one kept one's work-bag, atlas, and other educational reserves or Eileen would slip the reply into Marcelle's, and there it would lie, exposed to inspectorial ransacking, till such times as Eileen or Marcelle could transfer it to her bosom.
To himself he remarked: "She's used to having people wait on her." A shade of annoyance passed over the classic features of the Highest Living Authority. "Oh, dear," she complained, "how fearfully awkward! Now I shall have to take the next train to San Francisco and book passage on the steamer to Sequoia and Marcelle is such a poor sailor. Oh, dear!"
Then last of all, Marcelle. It was she who clasped Kit's hand, as she repeated in her low voice: "While the grass grows and the waters run, so long shall we be friends." "For pity's sakes, girls," exclaimed Miss Daphne, "don't act as if you were never going to see her again. I shall see that she comes back in vacation next year, because the Dean and I couldn't possibly do without her, now."
"I've been watching for you ever since lunch. Why didn't you come earlier?" "But I am early," smiled Marcelle. "It is only about three o'clock. Generally, I have to stay in all day Saturday, and give the boys a chance to go out. Will you write to me when you are away?" "I'd love to.
The reticence wrought upon Eileen's nerves. After a couple of months of maternal meekness and family poverty, the suggested sacrifice began to appeal to her. The coming of the letter was providential, she told herself: if Marcelle had not posted hers against her will, she might not have had this monition.
He'll never do anything to get his head cut off; and it's quite certain that nobody will think of leaving an income to Marcelle and Lucienne. . . . Well, good by, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope that things will turn out for the best." When she had gone off, Pierre and Thomas inquired if M. Grandidier had heard of Toussaint's misfortune and agreed to do anything for him.
And how good it is to be with a person who doesn't ask you whether you play much lawn-tennis, or whether you prefer London to the country on the whole. Ah, Mary! I consider myself a model of self-denial; but I am rewarded now." "That's rather pretty for you," answered the girl approvingly; "and you are forgiven, though you have still to make your peace with Aunt Marcelle.
She felt she ought to withdraw her own letter for revision, but she could not get at Marcelle or even make her understand. In her perturbation she gave Cabul and Candahar as Kings of Navarre, and Marcelle, implacable as a pillar-box, went away in the evening like a mail-cart.
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