Down-stairs,
Alan and Molly were walking the room, arm in arm, with a settled
look of sadness which was strangely out of place on their young
faces. Alan had told his sister the news as gently as he could,
and she could only cling to him and cry, as she took in all the
meaning of the shame and disgrace, all the consequences of the
father's sin upon the coming life of his children.
"But where is Katharine?" asked Mrs. Hapgood anxiously.
"Isn't she up-stairs?" said Molly.
"I haven't seen her," answered her mother.
"Why, we supposed she was with you!" And Alan hurried away to look
for his cousin.
At last he found her. Up in the familiar old garret that she had
loved so well, close by the great gray chimney which seemed to be
shielding her with its giant strength, there lay Katharine on the
shabby old sofa, sobbing as if her heart must break. To the young
lad, these unrestrained tears were much more alarming than her
former quiet, and he dared not speak, as he sat down on the floor
by her side, and put his brown hand against her cheek.
"Oh, Alan!"
"Yes, Kit; I know."
"Let me have my cry out now," she said brokenly. "It must come
sometime; then I can be brave for mamma and Jessie.
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