She looked very well."
"And did she say nothing of me?" cried Bessie in consternation.
"Not a word. She mentioned some time ago how sorry they all were not to
have you at home for a little while before you are carried away to
Woldshire."
"Then Mr. Wiley has never given them my message! Oh, how unkind!" Bessie
was fit to cry for vexation and self-reproach, for why had she not
written? Why had she trusted anybody when there was a post?
"You might as well pour water into a sieve, and expect it to stay there,
as expect Mr. Wiley to remember anything that does not concern himself,"
said Miss Buff. "But it is not too late yet, perhaps? When do you leave
Ryde?"
"It is all uncertain: it is just as the wind blows and as my uncle
fancies," replied Bessie despondently.
"Then write--write at once, and telegraph. Do both. There is Smith's
bookstall. They will let you have a sheet of paper, and I always carry
stamps." Miss Buff was prompt in action. Six lines were written for the
post and one line for the telegraph, and both were despatched in ten
minutes or less. "Now all is done that can be done to remedy yesterday
and ensure to-morrow: some of them are certain to appear in the morning.
Make your mind easy. Come back to our seat and tell me all about
yourself."
Bessie's cheerfulness revived under the brisk influence of her friend,
and she was ready to give an epitome of her annals, or a forecast of her
hopes, or (which she much preferred) to hear the chronicles of
Beechhurst.
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