“Why, not so dreadful much, Hosy. She's acted kind of queer about that, seemed to me. She said you went to this opera-house, wherever it was, and saw her there. Then you and she were crossin' the road and one of these dreadful French automobiles--the way they let the things tear round is a disgrace--ran into you. I declare! It almost made ME sick to hear about it. And to think of me away off amongst those mountains, enjoyin' myself and not knowin' a thing! Oh, it makes me ashamed to look in the glass. I NEVER ought to have left you alone, and I knew it. It's a judgment on me, what's happened is.” “Or on me, I should rather say,” I added. Frances had not told Hephzy of L'Abbaye, that was evident. Well, I would keep silence also. “Where is she now?” I asked. I asked it with as much indifference as I could assume, but Hephzy smiled and patted my hand. “Oh, she comes every day to ask about you,” she said. “And Doctor Bayliss comes too. He's been real kind.” “Bayliss!” I exclaimed. “Is he with--Does he come here?” “Yes, he comes real often, mostly about the time she does. He hasn't been here for two days now, though. Hosy, do you suppose he has spoken to her about--about what he spoke to you?” “I don't know,” I answered, curtly. Then I changed the subject. “Has she said anything to you about coming back to Mayberry?” I asked. “Have you told her how we feel toward her?” Hephzy's manner changed. “Yes,” she said, reluctantly, “I've told her. I've told her everything.” “Not everything? Hephzy, you haven't told her--” “No, no. Of course I didn't tell her THAT. You know I wouldn't, Hosy. But I told her that her money havin' turned out to be our money didn't make a mite of difference. I told her how much we come to think of her and how we wanted her to come with us and be the same as she had always been. I begged her to come. I said everything I could say.” “And she said?” “She said no, Hosy. She wouldn't consider it at all. She asked me not to talk about it. It was settled, she said. She must go her way and we ours and we must forget her. She was more grateful than she could tell--she most cried when she said that--but she won't come back and if I asked her again she declared she should have to go away for good.” “I know. That is what she said to me.” “Yes. I can't make it out exactly. It's her pride, I suppose. Her mother was just as proud. Oh, dear! When I saw her here for the first time, after I raced back from Interlaken, I thought--I almost hoped--but I guess it can't be.” I did not answer. I knew only too well that it could not be. “Does she seem happy?” I asked. “Why, no; I don't think she is happy. There are times, especially when you began to get better, when she seemed happier, but the last few times she was here she was--well, different.” “How different?” “It's hard to tell you. She looked sort of worn and sad and discouraged. Hosy, what sort of a place is it she is singin' in?” “Why do you ask that?”