So they went up the long, sunny street, deaf to the gay
bird-songs, blind to the sunlight that slanted down through the
arching elms and set the dewdrops to twinkling, only anxious to
reach the safe refuge of the old house, and the motherly woman
within it.
They found her on the piazza watching for them, eager for the news
the letter must bring.
Even then, Katharine's self-control did not leave her. Pausing
before her aunt, she said quietly, as she held out the letter,--
"Do you remember our talk last fall, auntie? My call has come, and
I must answer: 'ready.'"
"Katharine!"
Mrs. Hapgood snatched the note, read it, and turned impulsively to
the young girl before her.
"You poor child!" she began; but Katharine interrupted her, as she
had done Alan.
"Don't worry about me, auntie. But can you tell Jessie now,
please? I am afraid I can't." And she turned away and went into
the house.
When Mrs. Hapgood came down-stairs, an hour later, it seemed as if
a shadow had always rested on the house, the sorrow it contained
had so soon become a part of their lives. Up-stairs, Jessie had
cried until she was tired, stopped to listen vaguely to her aunt's
comforting words, then cried again, but all without any real
understanding of the trouble which had come upon her.
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