Mrs. Colwyn summoned her rather mysteriously one afternoon to a conference in her bedroom.
"Of course I know that you will be surprised at what I am going to say, Janetta," began the good lady, with some tossings of the head and flourishings of a handkerchief which rather puzzled Janetta by their demonstrativeness; "and no doubt you will accuse me of want of respect of your father's memory and all that sort of thing; though I'm sure I don't know why, for he married a second time, and I am a young woman still and not without admirers."
"Do you mean," said Janetta, "that you think——?"
She could go no further: she stood and looked helplessly at her stepmother.
"Do I think of marrying again? Well, yes, Janetta, I do; and more for the children's good than for my own. Poor things, they need a father: and I am tired of this miserable, scraping, cheeseparing life that you are so fond of. I have been offered a comfortable home and provision for my children, and I have decided to accept it."
"So soon!"
"It will not be announced just yet, of course. Not until the end of the summer. But it is really no use to wait."
Janetta stood pale and wide-eyed: she did not dare to let herself speak just yet. Mrs. Colwyn grew fretful under what she felt to be silent condemnation.
"I should like to know what harm it can do to you?" she said. "I've waited quite as long as many widows do, and toiled and suffered more than most. Poor James was the last man to grudge me a little rest and satisfaction as a reward for all that I have undergone. My own children will not repine, I am sure, and I look to you, Janetta, to explain to them how much for their good it will be, and how advantageous for them all."
"You can hardly expect me to try to explain away an act of disrespect to my father's memory," said Janetta, coldly.