That loving, pitying way of Mary's,
and her own Sylvia's exceeding pleasure in having her, were
delightful; and all through she felt the difference between the real
genuine love that she could rest on, and the mere habit of fondling
of the other Sylvia.
"O Sylvia," she said, as they walked upstairs, hand in hand, pausing
on every stop to make it longer, "how could I be so glad to go away
before?"
"We didn't know," said Sylvia.
"No," as they crept up another step; "Sylvia, will you always think
of me just here on this step, as you go up to bed?"
"Yes," said Sylvia, "that I will. And, Katie, would it be wrong just
to whisper a little prayer then that you might be good and happy?"
"It couldn't be wrong, Sylvia; only couldn't you just ask, too, for
me to come home?"
"I don't know," said Sylvia thoughtfully, pausing a long time on the
step. "You see we know it is sure to be God's will that you should
be good and happy; but if it was not for you to come home, we might
be like Balaam, you know, if we asked it too much, and it might come
about in some terrible way."
"I didn't think of that," said Kate. And the two little girls parted
gravely and peacefully; Kate somehow feeling as if, though grievous
things were before her, the good little kind Sylvia's hearty prayers
must obtain some good for her.
There is no use in telling how sad the parting was when Mr. Wardour
and the little Countess set out for London again.
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