“But you will be quite safe with him,” said his wife, in her caressing Highland speech. When she shook hands at parting I noticed the hardness of the little palm;—and I have always hated an old, black alpaca dress.
It is such a long way home from the station at Eberwich. We rode part way in the bus; then we walked. It is a very long way for my mother, when her steps are heavy with trouble.
Rebecca was out by the rhododendrons looking for us. She hurried to us all solicitous, and asked mother if she had had tea.
“But you’ll do with another cup,” she said, and ran back into the house.
She came into the dining-room to take my mother’s bonnet and coat. She wanted us to talk; she was distressed on my mother’s behalf; she noticed the blackness that lay under her eyes, and she fidgeted about, unwilling to ask anything, yet uneasy and anxious to know.
“Lettie has been home,” she said.
“And gone back again?” asked mother.
“She only came to change her dress. She put the green poplin on. She wondered where you’d gone.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said you’d just gone out a bit. She said she was glad. She was as lively as a squirrel.”
Rebecca looked wistfully at my mother. At length the latter said:
“He’s dead, Rebecca. I have seen him.”
“Now thank God for that—no more need to worry over him.”
“Well!—He died all alone, Rebecca—all alone.”
