Mother looked up then slowly, and fixed her eyes on me, like one coming out of a dream. She didn't ask if I was poorly, nor say I'd better go for a run, as was her way commonly; but she seemed to be trying to find out something; and all at once she said—
"Kitty, have you promised Mr. Russell to be his wife some day?"
"No, mother," I said, getting as red as fire.
"He has asked you, I suppose?" said she.
"No, mother," I said.
Mother gazed at me still, and sighed. "It's not much use putting questions," said she. "How am I to know it's truth you tell me?"
"Oh, but—" I said. "I wouldn't—"
"You wouldn't tell more fibs than happens to be convenient," said she; and I hadn't often heard harder words from mother. "No, I dare say not," says she. "But you see I mightn't know when it was convenient."
"Mother, I wish you wouldn't talk so," I said, feeling wretched.
"I dare say," says she. "And I wish I had a child again that I could believe in. I could have stood anything better than that—anything, I do think," said she. "It's like losing my Kitty that I've always trusted, and having somebody else instead."