"We might all of us remember Kate to-night when we are praying," said Amy, turning scarlet as she spoke.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course!" said the others, in the shy way in which schoolgirls allude to their deepest feelings.
"I wonder if Miss Leicester will come down to prayers," said Amy, after a pause.
"I don't know; perhaps there won't be any," said Hester. "How I wish," she added, with a sudden, vindictive smile, "that horrid Matilda were here!"
"Little wretch!" cried Amy. "Why should we be inflicted with her at this moment? Surely we have trouble enough."
"But for her it would never have happened," said Hester.
"Now, what in the world do you mean, Hetty?" cried half a dozen voices.
Hester looked mysterious. Molly's face became very white.
"I am bound in honor not to tell, girls," said Hester. "You must take the hint for what it is worth, and draw your own conclusions. You have observed a cloud between Kate and Molly."
"Yes, yes, of course we have!" cried half a dozen voices.
"Well, Matilda was at the bottom of it; I can't tell you particulars. But for Matilda, Kate mightn't have gone on that botany expedition. But for Matilda, Molly, at least, would have accompanied her. There might not have been an accident; Kate might be well and happy, and working hard for her scholarship at the present moment."
"You make me burn with curiosity, Hester," cried Amy.
"I dare say, well, I can tell no more."
"You've told too much," said Molly.
"Have I? Well, I'll be mum. Only listen to me, girls. Matilda is coming to St. Dorothy's."
"Yes; worse luck!" groaned one or two.
"When she comes, let's boycott her," said Amy suddenly.
"What fun!" cried the others, clapping their hands. Molly covered her face with hers.
She thought of her bargain in the cathedral; of her prayer to God, of her vow to give herself up to him absolutely, if only he would spare Kate. Did this kind of talk please him? Were uncharitableness, vindictiveness, revenge, the sort of things he delighted in?
"Oh," she said, rising to her feet, and speaking with an effort, "it frightens me to hear you talking like that, girls. If Matilda is bad, we have no right to try and make her worse. Oh, I did hate her myself, but I mustn't! I must get over it. Think of Kate – think of that beautiful picture she drew for us."
"Yes, poor darling," said Amy, with a sob. "I shall never forget how she looked when she talked of her grandfather, the peasant king, and the little cottage, and the flowers, and the sweet life she used to lead."
"Well, do let us forget about Matilda," said Molly. "If we can't think kindly of her, – and I find it very hard to think kindly, – let us try not to think of her at all; at least not to-night."
Hester stared very hard at Molly. When, by and by, the other girls had dispersed, Hester came up to Molly, and said in a low voice: "I don't understand you; I thought you hated Matilda."
Molly looked at her with frightened eyes.
"Oh, I do!" she said; "but I want to unhate her."
"Molly, you've no right to coin words."
"It expresses what I mean," said Molly.
"But you have not told me your true thought," said Hester; "what is it?"
"I am afraid of doing anything the least bit wrong to-night," said Molly again. "I think it may make a difference about Kate."
"I don't understand you," said Hester.
But Molly did not explain.
Miss Leicester came down at ten o'clock for prayers. The girls all stood up while she read the evening hymn; as a rule they sang it, but there could be no singing at St. Dorothy's to-night. At the end of her short prayer, she said a word or two about Kate.
"Spare her, if possible, O Father," said the principal, in her solemn voice; "but, oh, in any case help us to say, Thy will be done."
"I can't say it; I can't!" whispered poor Molly, to her own struggling heart. "Oh, God! please remember what I promised to you in the cathedral."
Then she went upstairs with the others.
CHAPTER XVII.
SUSPENSE
THE night passed somehow. When Molly laid her tired head on her pillow she fell asleep. She awoke quickly, however, aroused by the sound of wheels on the gravel sweep outside the silent house. Remembrance came quickly to her, and she knew what had happened, the great specialist from London had arrived. Molly wondered if Cecil would perhaps come to visit her. Her heart began to beat wildly; she sat up in bed. Kate's room was in a distant part of the house, but the sound of rather heavy footsteps coming up the stairs came distinctly to Molly's ears; they died away in the distance. Once again there was silence; it was broken, at long intervals, by the hurried closing of a door, by rapid but quiet footsteps, then again followed the awful, awful quiet – that sort of quiet which tries a young and anxious heart as nothing else can do in all the world.
Molly lit her candle; she took down a book of history from her shelves, and tried in vain to read; her eyes followed the printed words without in the least taking in their sense.
"'In tracing the history of nations,'" she read, "'we discover a threefold purpose – '"
"Kate, dear; oh, beautiful Kate!" cried Molly's heart.
The book seemed full of Kate; all the ancient story sank down into the depths of the paper, and Kate's history and Kate's danger seemed alone to fill the closely written pages. Molly shut up the book, and clasped her hands.
"How I wish Cecil would come to me!" she moaned once or twice.
The little clock on her mantelpiece struck the hour of midnight. The sound was echoed outside by the big cathedral clock, then the chimes rang out. Molly shuddered as she thought of the cathedral, where she had prayed, and of her vow to God. Perhaps God was angry with her for trying to make a sort of compact with him. Oh, what was right? What was the good of prayer? If one could not pray in one's extremity, what was one to do? Molly felt frightened as she remembered her vow. Oh, why did not Cecil come to her? How could she keep her senses, lying there in her little bed, while Kate was perhaps traveling along that valley from which there was no return? Molly wondered, as the night went on, if Kate would be afraid to die, but then she remembered that Kate would know nothing about it until after she was dead. She wondered if she would be frightened then, and how her spirit would feel without her body. She wondered if the old grandfather, who was so good and noble and sweet, would come to meet the girl he loved in the other world, and would lead her gently away up to the throne of God himself. And then she wondered if God would smile at poor Kate, and tell her that he had thought over everything, and saw quite clearly that her life down here would be too full of struggle, and so he had called her early to a happier home.
Here Molly's reflections caused her to burst into bitter sobs. She was sobbing loudly when her room door was suddenly opened, and Cecil came in.
"Oh, Cecil, Cecil! what news!" cried Molly. "Oh, Cecil, how I have longed for you! do tell me quickly what news, what has happened? Cecil, is she – is she dead?"
"No," said Cecil; "no!"
"Oh, come and sit by me, Ceci, and put your arms round me, I am so miserable, and so, so frightened! Come over here; let me feel your touch."
"Why, you want some sal volatile; you are quite unstrung," said Cecil.
"But oh, do tell me what news!"
"Well, they are going to perform the operation."
"Oh, isn't it over yet?"
"No; they are just going to begin."
"And have you been sent away?"
"Yes; I can do nothing further. Miss Leicester is there, and Miss Forester has come."
"Oh, I can't, can't stand it!" said Molly. "Suppose she wakes and screams – suppose it hurts her frightfully."
"No, it won't, they are going to give her chloroform. Molly, you must try and control yourself. It is selfish, too, to make a fuss just now."
"I know it is," said Molly; "but I have been alone so long, and I have got so fearfully nervous. I don't mind half so much now you are here. You will stay with me, won't you, Cecil?"
"I will, if you like; I will lie down beside you, if you like."
"Oh, I can't sleep; I can't think of it! Do talk to me. What did Sir John Williamson say?"
"I don't know; I did not hear. They are going to perform the operation; it will take a little over an hour."
"And then?" said Molly.
"Then they will know," answered Cecil.
"Oh, Cecil! how soon after?"
"Very soon, Miss Forester says. I heard her telling Miss Leicester that Dr. Williamson is certain there is a small piece of bone pressing on the brain. If that can be successfully removed without injuring the brain in any way, Kate will recover consciousness, and then there is no reason why she should not quickly get better."
"Do you think she'll get better, Cecil?"
"How can I say? I hope so."
"Have you – have you prayed about it, Cecil?"
"Yes, of course."
"So have I," continued Molly; "I prayed in church. I can't believe it was a very good prayer, and I can't make it any better. Miss Leicester prayed too, but she prayed differently. Miss Leicester said: 'Thy will be done.' I did not say that. I – I made a vow."
"Dear little Molly," said Cecil, "I never saw you so excited in all your life before. What vow did you make?"
"I promised to give myself up to God. I thought I would go as a missionary, or something, if only he would make Kate well. Was it wrong of me to pray like that, Cecil?"
"I don't know," answered Cecil.
She sat quiet and still on the edge of Molly's bed. Her strong face was quite pale, her eyes were calm and steadfast, her lips wore a gentle, chastened sort of look. Molly, who was in a fever of excitement and misery, could not help gazing at her in wonder.
"Are you not very anxious?" she asked.
"To a certain extent I am, Molly, but there is no use in losing my self-control. I don't think we two girls can do anything more in this matter, just now. If you don't rest, you will be ill; and that will cause a lot of fresh trouble and misery to a great many people. I will give you a little sal volatile, and then you must lie down, and I will hold your hand, and perhaps you will fall asleep."
"I can't sleep."
"You must try. I won't stay with you, if you talk any more."
"Oh, then, I'll stay perfectly quiet! but I know I shan't sleep."
Cecil prepared the sal volatile, and bringing it to Molly's side, made her drink it. Then she straightened the bed-clothes, and, laying her cool hand on Molly's hot forehead, sat down beside her. In spite of herself the tired girl's heavy eyes closed, and she slept.
It was quite early in the morning when she awoke. Cecil was still seated by her bedside. She started up with a cry.
"Oh, Cecil, what has happened? Is she – is she alive? I have been dreaming about her all night. Have you – have you heard anything?"
"No; but we might go and inquire now," said Cecil.
Molly sprang eagerly out of bed.
"Oh, you darling! Let us go immediately!" she cried.
She put on her dressing gown, and, taking Cecil's hand, stole softly with her out of the room. The long corridors were all deserted; the first dawn of the cold daylight was creeping in through the windows; the cheerful house looked ghastly and deserted. Molly shivered as she accompanied Cecil to the door of Kate's room. The girls had just reached the door when Dr Groves came out.
"Oh, sir!" cried Molly, "oh, please tell me – "
"Tell you what, my dear?" said the doctor kindly.
"Is she – is she dead?" said Molly.
"Dead? Not a bit of it," said the doctor. "I am glad to tell you that my patient is better this morning. Oh, my dear child, what is the matter? Pray don't make any noise outside this door."
For Molly had burst into such a choking fit of sobs that her self-control was in danger of giving way.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONSECRATED
SIX weeks after the events mentioned in the last chapter, Kate O'Connor had very nearly recovered her normal state of health. She was still at St. Dorothy's, but the doctor had forbidden all return to work until after Christmas. Christmas was drawing near now, and the girls were talking a good deal about it. Matilda Matthews had been an inmate of St. Dorothy's for three or four weeks. The boycotting idea had been quite abandoned. Molly was the one who put a stop to that; she had been consistently kind to Matilda from the first. Matilda had shrunk from Molly, and was rather surprised when the young girl came to meet her on the evening of her arrival, talked to her pleasantly, and did her best to make her feel at home and at ease. Matilda was given a very nice room to herself, and Molly suggested to her that she should invite some girl who was going in for the same branch of study to share it with her in the evenings.
"Such a step will make you popular," said Molly; "besides being a kind thing to do."
"I don't care a straw about being kind," answered Matilda frankly, "although I should naturally like to be popular. I did not know you were the good-natured sort you seem to be, Molly Lavender. I thought you'd hate and detest me after the shabby way I treated you; but as you are inclined to be agreeable, I am quite willing to meet you halfway. I may as well tell you now that I never took particularly to you, but I was much impressed by Cecil Ross, and if she were not quite the shabbiest girl in the world, I should wish to be her chum. Well, say now, why should not you and I be chums – chums for life, I mean. You don't want to share my room, but I can do all kinds of odd things for you. I can be awfully good-natured to girls who really cotton to me; and when you go to London – You live in London, don't you?"
"Yes; with my grandmother," answered Molly.
"Oh, I expect you have a horribly dull time! My father has a house in Portman Square. You shall come and drive with me in the carriage; and oh, say, wouldn't it be prime if I coaxed father to give a ball at Christmas, and I invited you to it?"
"I am not out yet," answered Molly, "so I do not think grandmother would allow me to go."
"Well, I mean a children's ball; you are not too old to enjoy it, are you?"
"I am fifteen – not at all too old; but I don't think grannie will wish me to leave her in the evenings."
"Your people are very rich, aren't they?"
"I believe they are; but what does that matter?"
"What does that matter!" echoed Matilda, with a curl of her lips. "Dear, dear! I think you must have taken leaves out of Kate O'Connor's book. By the way, they say – stoop down and I'll whisper to you – that that young lady will be obliged to stoop to charity, after all; that sainted grandfather of hers did not leave her much money, and her illness has swallowed up a considerable portion of what was reserved for her educational expenses here."
"Surely that is not our affair."
Molly turned scarlet as she spoke; she had to place the most violent control upon herself to remain another moment by Matilda's side.
"I do want to be good to you," she said. "I am sure we all at St. Dorothy's want to be good to you, Matilda, – at least, I think we all do, – but oh, please, if you wish to have a nice time here, you must give up that sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?" asked Matilda.
"You must not repeat what you think other people have said; you must try hard not to make mischief. As to Kate, I will not listen to a word against her; in fact, I won't talk about her to you at all."
"Oh, hoity toity!" said Matilda, tossing her head.
Molly soon afterward left her.
"How am I to be kind to such an awful girl?" she whispered to her own heart, but then she remembered her vow to God. She was trying with all her might to keep it, but nothing seemed quite right.
It was within a week of the end of the term, when, one morning, Molly received a letter from her grandmother. It ran as follows:
My Dear Molly:
You will be wondering what I intend you to do during the Christmas vacation which is now so close at hand, and you will doubtless be preparing for your usual time with me. Well, my dear child, I am sorry to disappoint you. I know, darling, that you love me very much, and it is a great pleasure to me to have you; but, after careful consideration, I have made up my mind that I must not have that pleasure this Christmas. It would be very selfish of me to have you in the house, Molly, for I could do little or nothing to give you pleasure while you were with me. My health, my dear child, is not what it was; I suffer terribly from insomnia, and can stand none of that noise and racket in which the young delight. In short, it would be very wrong to mope you up with an old woman, Molly. My faithful servant, Pearson, attends to all my wants; my doctor visits me daily. I have a full measure of that peace and calm, that quiet and rest, which are now my sole ideas of earthly happiness. You must not, therefore, fret about me, dear, for I am as well as an old woman of over eighty can be. This letter is to tell you, dear Molly, that you are not to spend Christmas with me. Have you any idea what you would like to do with yourself? Your letters from St. Dorothy's interest me very much. I delight in reading about your life, dear, for I can do so without in the least exciting myself. I always thought highly of Cecil Ross, and what you say about the Irish girl, Kate O'Connor gives me much pleasure. I told you all about my little scheme, Molly, for endowing girls who are ladies, and really want a good start in life. From certain things you tell me, it is possible that I may be able to assist Kate materially in the future. I can say nothing about that at present, but I wish you clearly to understand that I take an interest in her. I hope she will quite recover from her serious accident. What an escape she had of her life, poor child! what an awful operation she must have gone through! My dear Molly, what do you think of the following idea? Suppose you and Kate arrange to spend your Christmas with Cecil. Cecil will, of course, want to join her brothers, and you might all keep house together for a month. You can talk this over with Cecil, and let me know. Please understand that, in any arrangement of this kind, I consider myself responsible for the expenses. Why not go to the seaside? Some people enjoy the sea at Christmas. A complete change of that sort will do you all good, and a lot of young things together can knock up a good deal of fun – at least, I used to find that the case in those days in the dim past when I was young. Let me know what you settle, my darling, and believe me,
Your affectionate grandmother,Mary Lavender.
Molly read this letter with a quickly beating heart and flushed cheeks; she plunged it into her pocket, and danced rather than walked down to breakfast. Kate O'Connor had no home to go to, and Miss Forester had asked her to remain on at Redgarth if no better offer turned up. Kate had not yet recovered her usual color, nor were her eyes so bright as of old, she was gentle and affectionate to everyone, but a good deal of her high spirit had deserted her.
When Molly had an opportunity she spoke to Kate about the old trouble, but Kate's illness had made all that time seem rather dim to her, and although she was now very fond of Molly, something of the old verve had left her friendship.
"But it will be all right, more than right, when I get her away to the seaside," thought Molly to herself. "Oh, what a splendid idea it is!"
"Molly, what are you thinking about?" asked Cecil, as Molly ate her bread and butter and smiled to herself.
"You might as well give us a share of your happy thoughts," said Hester. "You can't possibly know how comical you look, eating and smiling and nodding, and never letting out a word."
"I have had such a jolly letter," answered Molly.
"From whom? Do tell us!"
"From grannie, of course."
"Oh, you are going to her for Christmas, are you not?"
"Well, no; I am not," answered Molly. "I can't talk about my letter now. Cecil and Kate, shall we meet and have a little consultation after dinner to-day?"
"It is a half-holiday, so of course we can," replied Cecil.
"And am I not to be in the conference?" interrupted Hester.
"No, I'm afraid you are not, but we'll tell you all about it afterward," said Molly.
She did not add another word, but, having finished her breakfast, left the room abruptly.
"Where are you going to spend your Christmas, Kate?" asked Hester.
"Here, I suppose," said Kate.
"You will have a dull time, you poor thing!"
"Oh, no! I shall like it. It is so kind of Miss Forester."
But Kate sighed somewhat heavily as she spoke.
"Well, I do pity you," said Amy. "Fancy staying on here with all the girls away. Even if you could study – but you are not allowed to do that yet."
"I shall be all right," said Kate. "I must have patience."
She did not add any more, but went out of the room.
Cecil and Hester found themselves alone.
"I wish I could do something for her," said Cecil; "but I can't. I'd give anything to invite her to stay with the boys and myself; but the only lodgings we can secure at Hazlewick are so small and poor that I could not possibly ask her to share them. Poor dear Kate! when I look at her I do long for money."
"Well, you will have plenty of money some day, Cecil," said Hester. "You have but to cultivate those wonderful brains of yours, and you will be able to do anything. You don't know what Miss Forester and Miss Leicester think of you, and for that matter, all the professors; they say you will pass your B.A. brilliantly by and by, and after that, of course, you can take up anything."
"I have a great deal to work for," said Cecil. "How quickly this term has gone! Of course I shall love to be back with the boys; but I shall be glad, too, when we can return to our life here. But for the anxiety about Kate, I could have done better than I have done. During the worst part of her illness, I could scarcely think of my studies at all."
"You ought to be a nurse or a doctor or something," said Hester. "Miss Leicester says you would make a splendid lady doctor; she said she never saw anyone so young with such self-control."
"By the way," said Cecil, "I wonder if that report is really true about Kate."
"What report?"
"Perhaps I ought not to speak of it, but I know you are her friend, Hester."
"Rather; I'd do anything for her," said Hester Temple.
"Well, it was Alice Wright, who lives at Dacre House, who told me, and Alice is a very careful sort of girl. She knows a cousin of Kate's, a Mr. Dixon; he is a solicitor in London, and Alice's mother wrote to tell her that Mr. Dixon has gone bankrupt, and that poor Kate's little money has been all swallowed up in the smash. I don't think Kate knows herself, but Alice says it is perfectly true, and that Miss Forester is carefully considering the case. She is so fond of Kate that nothing would induce her to cast her off, and, besides, Kate is still too weak to bear any shock. At the same time, Miss Forester can't keep her here if she has no money to pay her fees. If Kate were in her usual health, she is so full of pluck that she could stand anything, even a reverse of this sort. I wonder what Miss Forester will do; it would be perfectly horrid for Kate to feel that she was here on charity."
"Well, don't say anything about it," said Hester. "I expect something will be arranged during the vacation, and we shall know when we meet next term."
Cecil left the breakfast room feeling rather depressed. She went shortly afterward to school, and in the course of the morning, between two lectures, came suddenly face to face with the principal.
"My dear," said Miss Forester, in her genial way, "are you well? You don't look quite as bright as I should like to see you. I hope you are not studying too hard; there is no use in overdoing anything, even study, Cecil."
"No, I am not working too hard," said Cecil, "but oh, if I might talk to you!" she added, throwing emphasis and almost passion into her words.
Miss Forester laid her hand on her shoulder.
"You certainly may, my dear girl," she replied. "Let me see. Molly Lavender is coming to see me this evening. I have arranged to give her half an hour at five o'clock, but if you come to me at six, I shall be delighted to have a chat with you. I am interested in you, Cecil. If you go on as well as you have begun, you are likely to do the school credit. Can you come at six to-night?"
"I certainly can," replied Cecil. "I am anxious to see you, but not about myself; I want to say something about Kate O'Connor."
Miss Forester laughed.
"I am hearing about Kate O'Connor, morning, noon, and night," she said. "All you St. Dorothy girls seem to have gone wild about her. Well, my dear, don't look so puzzled; I am very fond of Kate; I will listen to anything you have to say about her with great pleasure. I will expect you at six this evening, Cecil."
Cecil ran off with a beaming face.
"Molly," she said, as they were going home together, "I am in luck! I met Miss Forester twenty minutes ago, and she invited me to go and see her this evening. I told her that I wanted to talk to her about Kate; I mean to have everything out, if I can."
"Are you going to-night?" said Molly. "She invited me to tea with her."
"Yes; I am to go afterward."
"And you mean to talk to her about Kate?"
"Yes."
"What about her?"
"Well, her vacation for one thing, poor darling! How is she to get better, living on all alone here?"
"She needn't," said Molly, beginning to skip as she walked; "it is all arranged in the most beautiful, perfect way. I will just tell you now, Cecil, for you can think it over during dinner, and then we can discuss the thing in all its bearings later on. Grannie – you know what a brick she is?"
"I should rather think I do," said Cecil warmly.
"Well," continued Molly, "she can't have me this Christmas. That love for silence seems to grow and grow upon her. The poor darling will soon bring herself to such a pass that she won't even be able to stand the creaking of a chair; but what heavenly plan do you think she has suggested? I am not to go to her, but I am to have a jolly, jolly, merry, merry Christmas, for all that. Oh, Cecil, and it will help you too, and those boys of yours, and Kate! Oh, I think it is just too perfect! I do think grannie has the sweetest thoughts in all the world. Aren't you quite delighted?"
"But you forget, you have not told me yet," said Cecil.
"Of course, no more I have. Well, listen: we're all to be grannie's guests this Christmas, not at her house in London, but somewhere at the seaside. Grannie will take lodgings for us, and we are to be as jolly and merry as ever we please. She has invited me, of course, and you too, Cecil, and the four boys, and Kate, and she thinks the seaside will do us good, even if it is cold weather; and now all we have to decide on is what part of the coast we will visit, and how many rooms we will require, for grannie, who is very rich, will pay everything, so that the horrid money part needn't trouble any of us. Now, Cecil, aren't you glad – aren't you delighted?"
"But it seems too much to take," said Cecil.
"Too much! Oh, if you're going to begin that nonsense, I'll never speak to you again! Don't waste words over it, Cecil, for you will have to yield in the end, and you may as well do it with a good grace."
"It will certainly be a good relief to Mr. Danvers," said Cecil.
"Yes, of course; and, poor man, his feelings ought to be a little considered. Of course you will accept, Cecil; say 'yes,' this minute."
"I don't see how I am to refuse, Molly. It is quite the most perfect idea I ever heard of in all my life."
"Yes, isn't it? Won't grannie have a jolly Christmas, even though she is all by herself. Why, her heart will be just bubbling over with contentment."
"But she would not like it to bubble," said Cecil. "Oh, she is the dearest old lady in the world! But Molly, darling, I very nearly lost my reason trying to stay quiet enough that day, when she told me that she had left me five hundreds pounds in her will."
"Well," said Molly, "I am too happy for anything. We'll tell Kate after dinner, and then you and I, Cecil, must arrange all about the lodgings. We need deny ourselves nothing, for grannie will want us to have a real good time."
The girls had a consultation after dinner, or rather, Molly harangued and arranged, and Kate and Cecil sat by and listened, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. Much of Kate's old high spirits returned to her for this auspicious occasion. It turned out that she knew a great deal more about the seaside than either of the other girls, her home in Ireland being within a mile of the coast. She suggested an unfashionable seaside resort; she further added that the sea was grandest in winter, when the great storms came, and the waves were sometimes, figuratively speaking, mountains high. She described with great vividness a storm which she and her grandfather had witnessed on the broad Atlantic, how the great rollers came dashing and breaking in, and the clouds of spray wetted your face, even though you stood many yards back from the raging sea. Then she described a vessel on the rocks, and the lowering of the lifeboat, and the rescuing of the drowning people, and the man and the little girl whom she and her grandfather took home that night; the terrible grief of the man, whose wife had been drowned in the shipwreck, and the feel of the little child's arms round Kate's neck as she lay huddled up in her bed.
"But all that sounds perfectly awful," said Molly, when Kate paused for breath.
"Yes, the shipwrecks are awful, but the sea itself is magnificent," said Kate, "you can't be near it without loving it. Oh, it will give me a fresh lease of life to breathe the dear salt air again!"
"Then the seaside is decided on," said Molly, with emphasis; "and all we have to do is to find a suitable place, not too fashionable. I wish we could go as far away as Penzance or Falmouth, but it seems scarcely worth while for such a large party to take so long a journey; I must think it all over very carefully. There is one thing now I want to decide."
"What is that?" asked Cecil.
"Why, that we should leave all our books behind, and just take a few good novels; one or two of Sir Walter Scott's, a Dickens and a Thackeray, and perhaps Miss Austen. Just let us live for pleasure for a whole month. Oh, I know it seems a wrong thing to say, but, for my part, I think I shall study all the better when the month is over, if I do not work during that time."