“Poor Frances, I have indeed returned her evil for good. I cannot tell you what a support she was to me in those days when I was alone at Sharsley. I was so silly and nervous in that big house; always afraid to go to bed. My room was by itself in the west wing, and the rats in the wall, gave me palpitation of the heart, and I used to think of ghosts too--the blind Scrope lady, who gropes and fumbles outside doors--but Frances would come up with books and jokes, and insist on my going for walks with her, and talking me out of my fears. She and you, are my best, and only, friends.” “Your best friend should be yourself, Letty--I can only offer you money and advice--you accept neither. How I wish I could give you what you want most--a will; a will to keep upon a certain steady path.” “I am on the right path now,” she answered, “and, to follow your simile, hand in hand with Cara, I intend to stick to a road that leads to happiness.” Mrs. Hesketh muttered something under her breath about a hedonist; then as the band played ‘God Save the King,’ they rose side by side, and presently were swallowed up in the streaming crowds returning to their several hotels; Letty expatiating on the beauty of the moonlit night, her companion dumb and distrait, in the face of the inevitable. When the critical Saturday arrived, Nurse Smithson, dressed in her best, what she called ‘private’ clothes, and a superb hat, went off in high spirits to the theatre, attended by her friends. Letty collected the child’s belongings, packed them in a trunk, and took her away in a cab to the Pavilion Hotel, where she met Mrs. Hesketh, and her own luggage. By the four o’clock afternoon boat, among hordes of holiday passengers, was a remarkably pretty girl in blue serge, with a small fractious child in her charge. The two were sped by a distinguished lady friend, who waved to them from the end of the pier, as long as a handkerchief was visible. CHAPTER XXV