Lydia soon ceased to listen. But when the coverlet slipped away she did
not fail to replace it tenderly over her mother's feet, and every now and
then her fingers gave a caressing touch to the delicate hand of which
Mrs. Penfold was so proud. It was not difficult to see that of the two
the girl was really the mother, in spirit; the maturer, protecting soul.
Presently she roused herself to ask:
"Where is Susan?"
"She went up to write directly after supper, and we mustn't disturb her.
She hopes to finish her tragedy to-night. She said she had an
inspiration."
"Inspiration or no, I shall hunt her to bed, if I don't hear her door
shut by twelve," said Lydia with sisterly determination.
"Do you think, darling, that Susy--will ever make a great deal of money
by her writings?" The tone was wistful.
"Well, no, mother, candidly, I don't. There's no money in tragedies--so
I'm told."
Mrs. Penfold sighed. But Lydia, changed the subject, entered upon a
discussion, so inventively artistic, of the new bonnet, and the new dress
in which her mother was to appear on Whitsunday, that when bedtime came
Mrs. Penfold had seldom passed a pleasanter evening.
After her mother had gone to bed, Lydia wandered into the moonlit garden,
and strolled about its paths, lost in the beauty of its dim flowers and
the sweetness of its scents. The spring was in her veins, and she felt
strangely shaken and restless. She tried to think of her painting, and
the prospect she had of getting into an artistic club, a club of young
landscapists, which exhibited every May, and was beginning to make a
mark.
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