She spoke no word,
but gently undid the other's hair, and smoothed and brushed it softly.
At last Mrs. Falchion said: "Justine, on Monday we will leave here."
The girl was surprised, but she replied without comment: "Yes, madame;
where do we go?"
There was a pause; then: "I do not know. I want to go where I shall get
rested. A village in Italy or--" she paused.
"Or France, madame?" Justine was eager.
Mrs. Falchion made a gesture of helplessness. "Yes, France will do. . . .
The way around the world is long, and I am tired." Minutes passed, and
then she slowly said: "Justine, we will go to-morrow night."
"Yes, madame, to-morrow night--and not next Monday."
There was a strange only half-veiled melancholy in Mrs. Falchion's next
words: "Do you think, Justine, that I could be happy anywhere?"
"I think anywhere but here, madame."
Mrs. Falchion rose to a sitting posture, and looked at the girl fixedly,
almost fiercely. A crisis was at hand. The pity, gentleness, and honest
solicitude of Justine's face conquered her, and her look changed to one
of understanding and longing for companionship: sorrow swiftly welded
their friendship.
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