'Silly little wench! I have not noticed it in thee. Thou art thy mother all over, Deb.'
'Well, no. Yet thy mother was not over-fond of prayer, Deb, till she began to ail. She was a madcap, she was a madcap I tell thee, like thou art; and too fond of me, Deb, to care much for her soul. But at the last God came between us two. Ah me!' Tears dimmed those bold stern eyes, or the look akin to tears.
Deborah said no more. Soon she went up to her little room, slowly, and with dragging steps. 'What has paled my Rose of Enderby?' were words that had been uttered by her father; and they haunted her. She looked in her glass. True, she was pale, but great fires burned in her eyes. What was this mighty sorrow, that weighed like a mountain on the gay careless heart? The girl was afraid. She liked it not. She shrank and trembled like a child, and lay down on her bed in a little coiled heap, and moaned in helpless agony. It was like a young wild deer; and behold, in its swift flight of joy, an arrow quivered in the bounding heart, and it fell stricken, and writhed, and raised its innocent pleading eyes, as if asking what was that grievous pain that drew the life-blood from its heart! Thus through the long, long night Deborah Fleming lay and moaned. She did not pray, she did not weep; but in the morning she was the true Deborah Fleming again; at least the world never knew her aught else; for in one long night Deb tired of sorrow, and her poor little soul longed for sunshine and joy again, and sought them wildly.
'And father,' said Deborah, 'I would like May Warriston to come here and stay with me for a bit; for when you are long away, I am apt to grow lonesome, and Mistress Dinnage cannot always be here.'
'Have May then. You have only to express a wish, sweet Deb, and it is granted. If we had food to feed the guests, heaven knows you might fill the house!'
So May came. They had not met since they were children, and now they are sixteen. A gay greeting passed between them, which was witnessed by Mistress Dinnage, whose heart ached sorely. May Warriston was small and fair; she blushed with every emotion; she idolised and admired Deborah with all her soul; while Deborah loved and petted May for her sweetness and fragile grace. The Warristons and Flemings had always been staunch friends and allies; a Fleming and a Warriston had fought, brothers-in-arms, in the Crusades, and lay beneath their long-drawn effigies side by side.