I half laughed, though my heart was so sore for Mr. Russell that tears lay nearer than laughter. Then I thought of the strange look that had come to Rupert's face, and I called out "Rupert!" but had no answer. "Rupert!" I cried again. It was too late. He had gone out of hearing. And, after all, what matter? I could tell him in the morning that I had only been cross, and that I had not really meant anything so bad as "hating;" only he must leave off meddling and saying hard words to me.
I went back into the house, for I knew mother would be expecting me. She gave a look up, and said—
"What's the matter?"
"I'm—tired," I said. My feet seemed to have turned to lead, and I felt as if I would do anything to have a good cry.
"Sit down and rest," says she. "You've gone as white as a sheet."
But I didn't dare sit down and think, for I couldn't have kept up then. The thought of Rupert was fading away like smoke. I could only feel that Mr. Russell was gone, and that everything was different.
"I must get in help," mother said. "You've done too much lately."
"O no," I said.
"Yes. Mary will be here another month: Mr. Baitson says so; and I'm glad enough to keep her; but I can't have you knocked up."
After a minute, mother said—