Speak the
word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth
to-morrow."
"Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.
There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother,
full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as
only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the
crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up
puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with
essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were
ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway.
She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was
allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her.
The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the
view over the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and
distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which,
after much experience, a traveller returns.
"And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett.
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