Kitabı oku: «The Letter of Credit», sayfa 10

"Then how can people be thirsty, after they have got the knowledge?" inquired Rotha.

But Mr. Digby's smile was very sweet this time, and awed her.

"After you have once come to know and love a friend," said he, turning his eyes upon Rotha, "are you satisfied, and want to see and hear no more of him?"

"Is religion like that?" said Rotha.

"Just like that. What the Lord Jesus offers to give us is himself. Now suppose the time come when you greatly desire to receive this gift, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Pray?"

"Certainly. But how? There are different ways of praying; and there is just one way which the Lord promises shall never miss what it asks for."

"I don't know but one way," said Rotha.

"Are you sure you know one? It takes more than words to make a prayer. But turn to the second chapter of Proverbs. Read the third and fourth and fifth verses."

Rotha read, and made no comment.

"You see? You understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Digby."

"'If thou searchest for her as for hid treasures, then shalt thou understand, and find.' – You know how people search for hid treasures?"

"Yes."

"They leave no stone unturned, they work by night and by day, they think of nothing else, until their object is gained. Mark those two places, Rotha, and mark them in the fly leaf of your Bible, 1. and 2."

"Suppose," he went on when she had done this, "suppose you have sought in this way, and the light does not come, and you are in danger of losing heart. Then turn to Hosea, sixth chapter and third verse. There you have an antidote against discouragement. You shall know, 'if you follow onto know the Lord;' if you do not give over seeking and grow tired of praying. 'His going forth is prepared as the morning.' Blessed words!" —

"I do not know what they mean," said Rotha.

"Do you know how the morning is prepared?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know why the sun rises when morning comes?"

"It wouldn't be morning, if he didn't rise, would it?"

"No. Well, when the time comes," said Mr. Digby laughing. "Do you know why the sun rises? and why does he not rise where he went down?"

"No – " said Rotha, her eyes kindling with intelligent curiosity.

Whereupon Mr. Digby turned himself out of his hammock, and coming to the table gave Rotha her first lesson in astronomy; a lesson thoroughly given, and received by her with an eagerness and a delight which shewed that knowledge to her was like what the magnet is to the iron. She forgot all about the religious bearing of the new subject till the subject itself was for that time done with. Then Mr. Digby's questions returned into the former channel.

"You see now, Rotha, how the morning is 'prepared,' do you?"

"Yes, Mr. Digby," she answered joyously.

"And sure to come. If the earth goes on turning round, it cannot help coming. Even so: the Lord's coming is prepared and sure, for any one who persistently seeks him. Keep on towards the east and you will certainly see the sun rise."

"Yes," said Rotha, "I see. It is beautiful."

"Mark that No. 3 in the fly leaf! But Rotha, remember, anybody truly in earnest and searching 'as for hid treasure,' will be willing to give up whatever would render the search useless."

"Yes, of course. But what would?" said Rotha, though she was thinking more of the improvised planetarium with which her imagination had just been delighted.

"Turn once more to the fourteenth of John and read the 21st verse." But Mr. Digby himself gave the words.

"'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him.'"

"That is somebody who has found the treasure, I think, Mr. Digby; it is 'he that loveth me.'"

"Quite true; nevertheless, Rotha, it remains a fact that nobody who is not willing to do the Lord's will, can come to the knowledge of him."

"Mr. Digby, why are wrong things so easy, and right things so hard?"

"They are not."

"I thought they were," said Rotha in surprise. "Am I worse than other people?"

"It all depends upon where you stand, Rotha. Would you find it easy to do something that would cause me great pain?"

"No, Mr. Digby, – impossible."

"I believe it," he said. "Then just put the case that you loved Christ much better than you do me; which would be the hard and the easy things then?"

Rotha was silent. But the whole conversation had rather given new food for the meditations it had interrupted and which had occasioned it. Where was all this to end? – the young man asked himself. And when should it end, in so far as the immediate state of things was concerned? As soon as possible! his judgment said. Rotha was already clinging to him with a devotion that would make the parting a hard business, even now; every week would make it harder. Besides, he had other work to do, and could not permanently play tutor. As soon as Mrs. Busby came home he would go to her and broach the matter. That would be, for the present, the best plan he could hit upon. A week or two more —

Which calculations, like so many others of human framing, came to nothing. A day or two later, driving in the Park one evening, a pair of unruly horses coming at a run round a corner dashed into the little phaeton which held Mr. Digby and Rotha, and threw them both out. The phaeton was broken; Rotha was unhurt; Mr. Digby could not stand up. He believed it was a sprain, he said; no more; but one foot was unmanageable.

A carriage was procured, he was assisted into it, Rotha took her place beside him, and the coachman was ordered to drive slowly.

A silent pair they were for some distance; and both faces very pale.

Rotha was the first one to speak.

"Mr. Digby – does it hurt much?"

"Rather, just now," he said forcing a smile. "Rotha, are you all right?"

"O yes. What can I do, Mr. Digby?"

"There is nothing to be done, till we get home."

For which now Rotha waited in an impatience which seemed to measure every yard of the way. Arrived at last, Mr. Digby was assisted out of the phaeton, and with much difficulty into the house. Here he himself examined the hurt, and decided that it was only a sprain; no doctor need be sent for.

"Is a sprain bad?" asked Rotha, when the assistants had withdrawn.

"Worse than a broken bone, sometimes."

Mr. Digby had laid himself down upon the cushions of the lounge; sweat stood on his brow, and the colour varied in his face. He was in great pain.

"Where is Mrs. Cord?"

"She's out. She's gone to New York. I know she meant to go. What shall I do for you, Mr. Digby?"

"You cannot – "

"O yes, I can; I can as well as anybody. Only tell me what. Please, Mr.

Digby!" – Rotha's entreaty was made with most intense expression.

"Salt and water is the thing, – but the boot must come off. You cannot get it off, nor anybody, except with a knife. Rotha, give me the clasp knife that lies on my table over yonder."

Mr. Digby proceeded to open the largest blade and to make a slit in the leg of his boot. The slit was enlarged, with difficulty and evident suffering, till the whole top of the boot was open; but the ankle and foot, the hardest part of the task, were still to do, and the swollen foot had made the leather very tight.

"I cannot manage it," said Mr. Digby throwing down the knife. "I cannot get at it. You'll have to send for a surgeon, after all, Rotha, to carve this leather."

"Mr. Digby, may I try?"

"You cannot do it, child." But the answer was given in the exhaustion of pain, and the young man lay back with closed eyes. Rotha did not hold herself forbidden. She took the knife, and carefully, tenderly, and very skilfully, she managed to free the suffering foot. It took time, but not more, nor so much, as would have been needed to send for a doctor.

"Thank you! – that is great relief. Now the salt and water, Rotha."

With a beating heart, beating with joy, Rotha flew to get what was wanted; flew only outside the door though, for in the room her motions had no precipitation whatever. She came staidly and steadily, and noiselessly. It was necessary to cut open also the stocking, to get that off, but this was an easier matter; and then Rotha's fingers applied the cold salt and water, bathing softly and patiently, with fingers that almost trembled, they were so glad to be employed. For a long time this went on.

"Rotha – "

"Yes, Mr. Digby," said the girl eagerly.

"What o'clock is it?"

"Seven, just."

"You have had no tea."

"Nor you, either. Will you have some now, Mr. Digby?"

"You will. The foot is a great deal easier now, Rotha. Lay a wet cloth over the ankle and let it alone for a while; and have some tea, dear."

Rotha obeyed, moving with the utmost delicacy of soft and quiet movements. She made the foot comfortable; rang the bell, and desired the kettle to be brought; and noiselessly arranged the table when the servant had set the tea things upon it She made the tea then; and had just cut a slice of bread and put it upon the toasting fork, when the door opened and in came Mrs. Cord, her arms full of cloths and vials and a basin of water. Rotha dropped the toasting fork and sprang towards her.

"What do you want?" she said. "What are you going to do?"

Her accent and action were so striking, that the woman paused, startled.

"There's a sprained ankle here – I'm coming to see it."

"No, you are not," said Rotha with great decision. "I have done all that is necessary, and I am going to do all that is necessary. I can do it as well as anybody; and I do not want you. You may carry all those things away, Mrs. Cord. Mr. Digby is asleep; he is better."

"You don't want me, maybe, Rotha, but Mr. Digby does. I've got what he wants here, and I knows my business. My business is to take care of him." She would have passed on.

"Stand back!" said Rotha, barring her way. "I tell you, he don't want you, and you are not coming. Stand back! Take your things away. I will manage all that is done here myself. You may go!" – The tone and action were utterly and superbly imperious.

The woman paused again, yielding before the slight girl, as matter always does yield to mind.

"What new sort o' behaviour is this?" she said however in high offence. "You to tell me what I'm to do and not do! You're takin' a good deal upon you, my young lady!"

"I take it," said Rotha, supremely. "Go! and send the girl here, if you please. I heard her go up stairs just now. I want her to make a piece of toast."

Mrs. Cord greatly displeased, withdrew, after a glance at the closed eyelids on the sofa. The eyelids however were not so fast closed as they might be; Rotha's first words, spoken somewhat more emphatically than usual, had roused Mr. Digby out of his light slumber, and he had seen and heard all that passed. He had seen it with not a little amusement; at the same time it had given him new matter for thought. This was Rotha in a new character. He had known indeed before, in a measure, the intense nature of the girl; yet in his presence her manner was always subdued, except in the passion of grief that burst all bounds. But this was passion of another sort, and in that concentration of force which draws out a kind of spiritual electricity from its possessor. He saw how it had magnetized Mrs. Cord, and rendered her bulkiness passive. He had been intensely amused to see the large woman standing face to face with the slim girl, checked and indeed awed by the subtle lightning fire which darted from Rotha's eyes and seemed to play about her whole person. Mrs. Cord was fairly cowed, and gave way. And Rotha's bearing; instead of a poor, portionless little girl, she might have been a princess of the house royal, if she were judged of by her mien and manner. There was nothing assumed or affected about it; the demonstration was pure nature, Mr. Digby saw well enough; but what sort of a creature was this, to whom such a demonstration could be natural? There was force enough there, he saw, to bring the whole machinery into disorder and ruin, if the force were not well governed and well guided, and the machinery wisely managed. Who was to do this? Mrs. Busby? Mr. Digby was not sure yet what manner of person Mrs. Busby was; and he felt more than ever anxious to find out. And now a sprained ankle!

Meanwhile, Rotha having driven her adversary from the field, was making peaceful arrangements. She had sent the toast to be made; seeing that Mr. Digby's eyes were open, she carefully renewed the salt water application to his ankle; poured out a cup of tea, and brought it with the plate of toast to his side; where she sat down, the cup in one hand, the plate in the other.

"What now, Rotha?" said he.

"Your tea, Mr. Digby. I hope it is good."

She looked and spoke as gentle as a dove, albeit full of energetic alertness.

"And do you propose to enact dumb waiter?"

"If you want me to be dumb," she said.

He laughed. "Rotha, Rotha! this is a bad piece of work!" he said; but he did not explain what he meant. – "That won't do. Call Marianne and let her shove the table up to the sofa here – one corner of it."

"I like to hold the things, Mr. Digby, if you will let me."

"I don't like it. Call Marianne, Rotha, and we will take our tea together. I am not a South Sea Islander."

"Suppose you were, – what then?" asked Rotha as she rang the bell.

"Then I suppose I should think it proper for the ladies of the family to take tea after I had done."

The tea time was an occasion of unmitigated delight to Rotha, because she could wait upon her protector. He was suffering less now, and except that he was a prisoner seemed just as usual. After tea, however, he lay still, with closed eyes again; and Rotha had nothing to do but take care of his ankle and look at him. She thought it had never struck her before, what a beautiful person he was.

I use the word advisedly, and that I may justify it I will try, what I believe I have not done before, to describe Mr. Digby. He was not at all one of a class, or like what one sees every now and then; in fact the combination of points in his appearance was very unusual. His features were delicately regular and the colour of skin fair; but all thought of weakness or womanishness was shut out by the very firm lines of the lips and chin and the gravity of the brow. His hair was light and curly, and a fair moustache graced the upper lip; not overhanging it, but trained into long soft points right and left. He wore no English whiskers nor beard. Again, his hands were small and delicate, and the whole person of rather slight build, as far as outline and contour were concerned; but the joints were well knit and supple, and all the muscles and sinews as if made of steel. Rather slow and easy, generally, in movement, he could shew the spring and power of a cat, when it was necessary; nature and training having done their best. He was habitually a grave person; the gravity was sweet, but very decided, and even when crossed by a smile it was not lost. So at least Rotha had always seen him. There were several reasons for this; one being the yet unhealed wound left by the death of his mother, to whom he had been devotedly attached, and another the sudden death a year or more ago of the lady he was to have married. The world knew nothing of these things, and set Mr. Digby down as a ridiculously sober man, for a man in his circumstances. They gave him also largely the reputation of haughtiness; while no one had more gentle and brotherly sympathy with every condition of humankind, or shewed it more graciously. He got the reputation partly, perhaps, by his real separateness from the mass of men, and his real carelessness about the things in which they take concern; more, however, it came from the feeling of inferiority in his presence, which most people find it hard to forgive a man. He was a welcome guest wherever he appeared; but very few were acquainted with his real tastes and powers and inner nature, even as Rotha knew them.

She knew something of them. She did not misjudge him; but on the contrary dwelt on everything that belonged to him with a kind of worshipping admiration. So she sat and looked at him this evening, and thought she had never known before how beautiful he was; and the evening was not slow to her, nor long, though it was utterly silent.

By and by came in Mrs. Cord, again with her hands full.

"I beg your pardon – can I do anything for you, sir?"

"No, thank you. I have had all the care I needed."

Rotha's heart had beat fearfully, and now it swelled in triumph.

"I have some liniment here, sir, that is an excellent thing for a sprain – if a sprain it is; I wasn't allowed to examine."

"Nothing so good as salt and water. Mrs. Cord, let them make up a bed in the next room for me. I had better not go up stairs."

So the nurse was dismissed, and Rotha confirmed in her office, to her great joy.

CHAPTER XI.
MRS. BUSBY

The weeks that now followed were a time of happiness to Rotha, as perfect as in her present circumstances it was possible for her to know. She was allowed to minister to Mr. Digby, she was constantly with him, and intercourse and lessons were tasted with redoubled zest. For she was kept very busy at her old studies, and new ones were added; she read aloud a good deal; Mr. Digby never shunned talk when she wanted information or help in any puzzle; and the meal times, when ministry was varied and the conversation ran upon lighter topics, were hours of unalloyed enjoyment. I think these weeks were not disagreeable ones to the other party concerned; however, he was constantly reminded of the need of making new arrangements; and as soon as his ankle would permit his getting in and out of a carriage, he was ready to go to Mrs. Busby's. But when at last he was on the way, he thought to himself that he had another hard job on his hands. How would Rotha bear uprooting again, and transplanting to entirely different soil? she who took such terribly fast hold of any ground that suited her. Would Mrs. Busby's family be such ground? If it would not, if he saw cause to think it would not, Mr. Digby resolved she should not be put there. But how was he to find out? He came into Mrs. Busby's drawing room with the full measure of his usual gravity.

It was almost the end of October now, and the family had been long enough returned from the country for the mistress of it to have her house put in perfect winter order. Carpets were down, curtains were up; mirrors and lamps were unswathed from their brown linen coverings; everything that was metal shone with the polish put upon it, and everything that was upholstery shewed soft and rich colours and draperies. It was all harmonious, it was all very handsome; the fault was the fault of so many rooms, a failure to shew cause why it should be at all. Nothing was done there, nothing could be done; there was plush and satin and brocade and gilding and lacquered wood; but no life. Even the fire, for there was a fire, was a solid mass of firestones; a glowing grateful of hard coal; if there was life in that, it was the life of mere existence.

Plenty of money! What else?

One of the great polished doors opened a little? softly, and the mistress of the house came in. She was rather a contrast to it all. Perhaps she had not yet made her toilette for the afternoon; she was in a very plain dress, and came in drawing a shawl around her. Not a handsome shawl either; the lady's whole appearance was most absolutely without pretension, and so was her manner. But the manner was not artless; it gave you the impression that she always knew what she was saying and had a reason for saying it. And the face, which had once been handsome, and might still have laid claim to some distinction, seemed likewise to lay claim to nothing, beyond the possession of sense and discernment and knowledge of the world.

"Mr. Southwode!" she said as she closed the door. "You are quite a stranger."

She was far too acute to tell Mr. Digby how welcome a visiter he was. She let the fact sufficiently appear in her smile and the tones of her greeting.

"I think, you have been a stranger here too, Mrs. Busby. Were you not late in returning to town?"

"Yes – September was so warm! But I think eight months of the year is sufficient to spend in the city. Soul and body want the cultivation of nature for the other four; don't you think so? The ocean and the mountains are better than books. There is enlargement of the faculties to be sought, as well as stores for the memory."

"And what mountains, and what sea, have you been looking upon this summer?"

"We have seen no mountains this year; we kept to the sea beach. Except for a short interval. And you, Mr. Southwode? What have you done with yourself?"

"My last achievement was to let somebody run into me, in the Park, and sprain my ankle in consequence."

There followed of course inquiries and a full account of the affair. Mr. Digby could not be let off with less; and then advice and recipes, in the giving of which Mrs. Busby was quite motherly.

"And have you resolved at last to make your home in America?" she asked after this.

"I make my home wherever I am," the young man replied, with his slight grave smile.

"But surely you do not think it well for any ordinary mortal to imitate the Wandering Jew, and have a settled home nowhere?" said Mrs. Busby, shewing her white teeth, of which she had a good many and in good order.

"It may be best for some people," the young man said lightly. "But I came to speak to you about a matter of business. Mrs. Busby, pardon me for asking, had you once a sister?"

There was a change in the lady's face, marked enough, yet not so as to strike any but a nice observer. The bland smile faded from her lips, the lines about her mouth took a harder set, the eyes were more watchfully on the alert.

"Yes," she said quietly, not shewing her surprise. "I have a sister."

"Have you heard from her lately?"

"No. Not lately." The eyes were keenly attentive now, the words a little dry. She waited for what was to come next. As Mr. Digby paused, she added, "Do you know her?"

"I have known her."

"In Medwayville? I did not know you had ever travelled in the western part of the state."

"I have never been there. I knew Mrs. Carpenter here, in New York."

"In New York!" repeated Mrs. Busby. "She did not tell me – When did you know her in New York? I was not aware she had ever been here."

"She was here the early part of this summer. But she was very ill, and failing constantly; and in July – did you know nothing of it? – she left us all, Mrs. Busby."

"My sister? Did she die here? Do you mean that?"

Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was determined this time he would not break.

"What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her feet.

"I am afraid, – the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was."

"Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go their own way, and whom nobody can help. She was here several months, then?"

"More than that"

"More? How much more?"

"She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her."

"Did she tell you anything of her story?"

"Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you were her sister."

"Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they charge the fault upon their family."

"Mrs. Carpenter did not seem to me inclined to charge fault upon anybody.

I never heard anything from her that shewed a censorious spirit."

Mrs. Busby opened her lips, and pressed them a little closer together.

Evidently she was minded to ask no more questions. Mr. Digby went on.

"Mrs. Carpenter had a daughter – "

"I know she had a daughter," Mrs. Busby said briskly. "Is she living?"

"Certainly."

"Pray, how old?"

"About – I believe, about fifteen."

"Where is she?"

"She is here."

"Here! In whose care? and where is she?"

"She is in my care. It is about her I wished to speak to you."

"In your care! But Mr. Southwode, that is very strange! How came my sister to leave her child in your care?"

"She honoured me, I believe, with so much trust as to believe I would be a faithful guardian," Mr. Digby said, with his extremely composed gravity.

"But was there nobody else?" said the lady, for a moment forgetting herself.

"Nobody else, whom Mrs. Carpenter thought as competent, or as trustworthy," the young man said with the gleam of a smile.

"Mr. Southwode, I cannot allow that for a moment," Mrs. Busby said with energy. "I am the proper person to take charge of my sister's child, and if you please I will assume the charge immediately. Where is she? She ought to be under my roof."

"It occurred to me, that if you were so inclined, your house would be the safest place for her; for the present at least."

"For the present and for always," said the lady decidedly. "Who else should take care of her? Where can I find her, Mr. Southwode?"

"Nowhere. I will bring her to you, if you will allow me."

"Do you know the girl? do you know much of her, I mean?"

"Something – " Mr. Digby easily assented.

"And what is she, if you can tell?"

"I do not know that I can tell, what you will find her. Do you not think, Mrs. Busby, that a human character of any richness shews different sides of itself to different persons, as varying affinities call out corresponding developments?"

"Then you call hers, a character of some richness?"

"I suppose I implied as much."

"And will you tell me what you have found her?"

"Pardon me; that would be an injustice to her. You would naturally look to verify my impressions, and perhaps could not do it. It is unkind to praise or blame anybody beforehand to third persons. You make it impossible for the balance of judgment to swing clear."

"She ought to come here at once. Will you bring her to-morrow?"

"I think not to-morrow."

"Why not? When, then?"

"This is Thursday? Suppose we say, next week?"

"Next week! That is waiting very long. Where is she? I will go to see her."

"Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Digby rising. "As soon as she is ready, and I am ready, I will bring her; but not before Monday or Tuesday."

"Mr. Southwode," said Mrs. Busby, with a mixture of suspicion and raillery in her look, which was but indifferently compounded, "if my niece were a few years older, I should begin to suspect that you hadreasons for being unwilling to put her out of your care."

The young man met her eyes with the grave, careless composure which was habitual with him.

"I have reasons," he said. "And I am not going to put her 'out of my care.' I am only purposing to allow you, for the time being, a share in the care, Mrs. Busby. A trust that is given to me, I do not resign."

The lady shut her lips a little tight.

"What school is your daughter attending?" Mr. Southwode went on.

"I am not sure where I shall send her this year. She has been going – But I am thinking of making a change. I do not know yet where she will be."

The gentleman remarked, that could be talked of another time; and took his leave. Every trace of smiles disappeared from Mrs. Busby's face as he closed the door behind him. She stepped to the window and drew down the linen shade where the sun was coming too brightly in; and then she stood for some minutes upon the hearth rug, grave and thoughtful, one eyebrow arched in meditation as society never saw it arched. Her concluding thought might be summed up thus: – "When she is under my care, my young gentleman, I think she will not be under yours. Preposterous!"

Mr. Digby had his thoughts too as he drove homeward. They will never get on together, he said to himself. It will not be happy for Rotha, nor easy. And yet – it is the best thing I can do for her just now. She must have a woman's care; and whose could be so proper as her aunt's? Besides, I shall see her frequently; I shall know all that concerns her, for Rotha will tell me; and if things go wrong, I can at any time put in my hand and set them straight. I am sorry – but this is the thing to do; and there is no help for it.

In spite of all which certainty in his own mind, Mr. Digby looked forward with positive uneasiness to the telling Rotha what was in store for her. There was no help for that either; it must be done; and Mr. Digby was not one to put off a duty because it was disagreeable.

The next morning Rotha was at her drawing again, and Mr. Digby lay on the lounge, thinking how he should begin what he had to say. Rotha was looking particularly well; fresh and bright and happy; very busily intent over her drawing. How the girl had improved in these weeks, softened and refined and grown mannerly. She has good blood in her, thought Mr. Digby; her features shew it, and so do her instincts, and her aptitudes. —

"How would you like to go to school, Rotha?"

She looked up, with the flash of interest and of feeling which came so readily to her eye.

"I shouldn't like it as well as this, Mr. Digby," – ("this" meant the present course and manner of her education;) "but I suppose you could not go on teaching me always."

"I am not tired of it, Rotha; but I think it would be better in many respects for you to be at school for a while. You will like it, too."

"When shall I go, Mr. Digby?" she asked in a subdued voice, without looking up this time.

"The sooner the better, now. The schools have all begun their terms some weeks ago. And then, Rotha, you must have a home in the city. You could not live out here at Fort Washington, and attend school in New York. I shall be obliged to go back to the city, too."

"Then I would like to go," said Rotha simply.