I didn't see father again that evening, for mother made me go to bed early, and in the morning she wouldn't let me come down to breakfast. When I did come down, father was gone to his work. He would be busier than usual, we knew, for there were a lot of excursion trains running that day having to do with some races a few stations off.
Mother seemed just the same as always in her manner, only she was so silent and so grave—silent even for her. She hardly opened her lips at all, and I could see a sort of grieved look: not vexed—only grieved. And I knew it was about me. I longed to tell her I was sorry; yet I said nothing.
I hadn't been downstairs an hour, when something took us both by surprise. Mother was washing up the breakfast china, and I was drying the cups, when all of a sudden the kitchen door leading into the garden was pushed gently open, and Mary Russell walked in.
Mother just said "Mary!" and I let slip the cup I held, so that it fell and was broken.
"No need for that either!" mother said.
Mary stood still, looking at us with such sorrowful eyes, and her face was more worn and pale than when she went away. One could see she had had trouble or worry of some sort, since leaving us.
Mother picked up the three pieces of the cup, and put them on the table. Then she went forward, and gave Mary a kiss.
"My dear, you're always welcome," she said. "But why didn't you tell us you were coming?"
"I didn't know—till—" Mary said.
"Till when?" mother asked.