When at last I went down, it was with red eyes and changed feelings. Mother looked up at me from her work, and I saw a difference in the look, more like I was used to.
I wanted to tell her too that I was sorry, and meant to do rightly; but when I reached her side, I couldn't speak, I could only cry.
"Yes, I understand," says she, in her quiet fashion; "I understand, Kitty."
But she didn't take me straight into her arms and to her heart, like father. Mother was so unlike to father. I knew it would be a good while before she'd feel for me as she was used to feel, or give me the old trust. And I knew that would be my punishment.
"It's not good for you to cry so much," says she. "Come a turn in the garden with me. That'll make you feel better."
Mother took up her red shawl, and we went out together. The fresh air always did me good, and I knew mother was showing forgiveness too in her own way. We didn't say anything, but went along the path on the embankment to the end.
"This is where you were when you saw the truck that day," said she.
It wasn't the spot where I stood when I saw the truck first, but I didn't see any need to contradict.
"I'm always thankful you had the sense to do your duty," says she. "But I'm none too sure it was good for you—all the fuss that was made about it."
"No, mother," I said.