Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/195

 She was sitting, half-reclining, on the bench so often occupied by the brothers. She still retained the costume of her practice-hour and her usually pale face was flushed from exertion on the parallel bars. Outside, the day was bright and cold, and the sunlight invaded the great chamber, together with the chill, but Consuelo was oblivious to the sensations created by either.

When, she demanded plaintively, after a pause, will he come back?

Who, dearie?

Why, Gunnar, of course?

Hush, dear. We don't know where he is no more'n you do. He's gone away. He may never come back.

This adjuration reminded Consuelo unpleasantly of a similar remark that her mother had made, perhaps more naïvely, when she had asked news of a favourite uncle. Later, she had learned that the uncle was dead. Somehow, she did not feel at all convinced that Gunnar was dead, although certainly, this was the impression that Mrs. Hugo, however involuntarily, had conveyed. If Gunnar were dead, she assured herself on the testimony of her day-dreams, he would return to her in a vision, as a knight in silver armour, a spirit in mother-of-pearl mail, driving a chariot of fire. No, she could not but hold the unshakable belief that Gunnar would come back alive, come back, moreover, to this spot.