"Then the change will be one of joy!" cried Sally, with a brighter look.
"You know what that means, Sally. It means separation from us. You have a good memory, my girl?"
"Carry your mind back to the holiday we had in the country. Do you think you can recall all that occurred in those few happy days?"
"Our packing up the night before; getting up early in the morning and meeting the wagon; trotting out of the dull streets into the beautiful country--I can hear the jingle of the bells on the horses' necks--the gardens, the lanes, the lovely flowers, and the waving corn; the names of the horses, Daisy and Cornflower--is that right, Daddy?"
"Go on, Sally. You have a capital memory."
"Our stopping at the public-house, and having dinner in the garden; our getting into the wagon again, with a lot of fresh hay to sit on; our trotting on and on till we came to another public-house, called The World's End--I thought it a strange name, and that we were really getting to the end of the world----"
"One moment, Sally. Before we came to The World's End, we saw a great park with splendid iron gates at the entrance. I asked what place it was----"
"And the wagoner said it was called Springfield."
"That's right, Sally; go on. What a memory you've got."
"Getting down at The World's End, and of its being quite early. Then you took us for a walk, and on the way we met a gipsy woman----"
Sally paused. She remembered perfectly well that the gipsy had predicted that a great trouble would fall upon her through her love for a woman younger than herself, more beautiful than herself, that she loved, and loved dearly; and that then the gipsy had said to the Duchess, "Show yourself, my beauty." Sally did not wish--for the reason that it might be of disadvantage to the Duchess--to recall these details to Seth, who might have forgotten them; as indeed he had, his mind being fixed on a particular point which Sally's memory had not yet reached; but not the less startling to her was the conviction that the gipsy's words were coming true. _Coming_ true! Had they not been already verified by the altered relations between herself and the Duchess? It smote her keenly to reflect that for a long, long time past the Duchess had hidden from her knowledge the secret of a love which might tear them asunder for ever. But Sally was not prone to selfish musings; her generous nature was always ready to find excuses for the girl-friend to whom she had been sister and mother; and although her heart was aching sorely, and yearning for confidence and sympathy, she laid no blame on the cause of her sorrow. What more could she desire than that the Duchess should become a lady, and enjoy the life she sighed for? "I dare say," thought Sally, "that she will let me see her now and again, when no one is near to make her ashamed of me." To her own future Sally gave no thought; love of another kind had not yet stirred her soul with its enthralling influence.