One moment I was vexed with him, and felt how meanly and unworthily he had acted. Then the very next moment I'd see his face, as he had looked when he called me "his little Kitty," and I seemed ready to cry out with longing to have him near me again—even while in my conscience I couldn't but condemn his deceit and cowardice. Not that I let myself use any such words about him at that time. I only felt: I didn't say.
A little while before dinner, father came in. I had gone upstairs again, for I was so restless I couldn't keep still; and I saw him from my window. I knew he and Mary would have a talk together about me; and I didn't go down, but left mother to get the dinner. Mother never called me, as she'd have done usually. And when I went down, father scarce looked at me. That did pierce deep, for I was used to such tenderness. It was as much as I could do to bear the change in him.
I don't know much of what was said by anybody at dinner. I only know how sad and down-hearted father seemed, and how Mary looked as if she did feel for him so.
But he never said a word to me all dinner-time. For I hadn't so much as told him nor mother yet that I was sorry for all I'd done.
Father went off again the moment he had finished; and mother was called out to speak to somebody in the kitchen. That left Mary and me alone.
I thought in a moment that she would begin by finding fault with her brother, and that I would not agree.
But her first words were not what I expected; they took me altogether by surprise.
"Kitty," says she, "what am I to say to Walter from you?"