"In the garden, mother," I said, hanging my head, and wishing my cheeks didn't burn so.
"That's nothing to be ashamed of, is it?" says she. "What took you into the garden?"
"I—wanted some parsley," I said. For a moment I couldn't recollect what had taken me first.
"Did the parsley keep you all this time?" says she, as quiet as anything.
"No, mother," I said; "it wasn't only the parsley. It was—I went along the path. And Mr. Russell was there. He came to ask —"
"To ask about Mary, I suppose?" says mother, in her dry-like tone. "Yes; but he heard about her just an hour ago, Kitty. He's in a great hurry to hear again."
"She's so ill," I said.
"Yes, that's true. She's been worse," mother said.
"And he seemed—he seemed—so unhappy," I went on. "I just stayed a minute—to—to comfort—" And then the thought of the way he had used that word, calling me "a little comfort," rushed up, and my cheeks burnt redder than ever.
"To comfort him!" says she. "Yes, that's very pretty. But you're a young woman now, Kitty, and he is a young man. So next time you find him unhappy, you had best come straight and tell me, and I'll do the comforting."