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It is a week since Harry Goward went away, and Peggy has not had a letter, although she has haunted the post-office, poor child! and this morning she brought home a letter for me from that crazy boy. She was white as chalk when she handed it to me. "It's Harry's writing," said she, and she could barely whisper.
But I can only hope the boy has gotten over his feeling for me, that he has been really changeable, for that would be infinitely better than the other thing. Well, I shall not need to go away. Harry Goward has himself solved that problem. He goes himself to-morrow. He has invented a telegram about a sick uncle, all according to the very best melodrama.
Yet, what's the use of washing your hands when you're certain to get them dirty again in five minutes? Well, then, awhile ago Peggy wrote she was engaged to Harry Goward, and there was great excitement in the happy home. My people are mobile in their temperatures, anyway a little thing stirs them up. I thought it was queerish, but I didn't know but Peggy had changed her mind about loving Dr.
Maria said that Peggy never would take HER advice, and Peggy returned that Maria had hurt her more than any one by her attitude toward Harry Goward, that she was so suspicious of him that it had made him act unnaturally from the first that nothing had hurt her so much since the time Maria took away Peggy's doll on purpose when she was a little girl the doll she used to sleep with and burned it; it was something she had NEVER got over.
Denbigh; but this clashed with Maria's idea, which was to entangle the doctor with Aunt Elizabeth in order that the Goward might be recaptured. Now the engagement was off; Aunt Elizabeth had gone into business with a clairvoyant woman in New York; Goward was in the hospital with a broken arm, and Peggy was booked to go to Europe on Saturday with Charles Edward and Lorraine.
I'm not sure I wouldn't rather lose mother than him, because you can get a step-mother, but it's awfully difficult to replace a lizard like Diogenes. I wonder if Lorraine will think I've written too much about my animals? They're more fun than Peggy anyway, and as for Harry Goward golly! The toad or lizard that couldn't be livelier than he is would be a pretty sad animal.
When, on the 18th of February, the G.O.C. returned from a week's visit to France, and gave us a lecture upon the very latest things, we knew we might go at any time. Actually at noon on the 25th we got the order to entrain at Harlow at midnight, and the next morning we were on Southampton Docks. We left behind at Sawbridgeworth Captain R.S. Goward, now Lieut.
"Billy, my son," he said, "will you kindly deprive us of the light of your presence for one hour by the clock? Here's my timepiece one hour. Go!" And he gave Hotspur a slap so he leaped. Dr. Denbigh is the most different person from Harry Goward I know.
For, as I say, on my last visit in the Crafts neighborhood she was taking tea with all of them and Dr. Denbigh." "Dr. Denbigh!" I repeated, in surprise. "Oh, Charles, are any of them not well?" "No, no. I think he's been in New York" he gave a groan "on account of some delicate finesse on Maria's part, some incomprehensible plan of hers for bringing Goward back here.
Goward used to laugh at me for taking it, only he said I could get honors in anything, my verbal memory is so good. But I told him, and it is true, that the last part of the book is very dull. While I was going over all this, still with that strange excited feeling of happiness, I heard Aunt Elizabeth's voice from below. She was calling, softly: "Peggy! Peggy! Are you up there?"
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