"Mr. Russell is going."
I didn't say a word.
"He's been in to bid Mary good-bye. It's rather sudden. I'm not sorry for my part," mother said.
I stood leaning against the dresser, and felt as if I must choke. Mother gave me another look. Then she came close, and put her arms round me; and I clung to her, and cried—oh, how I did cry! Mother just petted and soothed, and didn't ask a single question; only presently she talked of other things, and tried to lead my thoughts away from him.
For, you see, she hadn't a notion of anything between us two. She only thought her Kitty's silly heart was touched. She trusted me so, she could not fancy anything said which I would not tell her. And she had no notion of making matters worse by a lot of talk about Mr. Russell.
[CHAPTER V]
RUPERT.
"WHAT'S become of Rupert?" father said at breakfast next day.
We always breakfasted at half-past seven, partly because father had to be up so early, and partly because mother liked it. Rupert ought to have been in the ticket-office half-an-hour before, in time for the first passenger-train that stopped at Claxton. Plenty of luggage-trains went by in the night, but happily for father and the men, there wasn't much shunting of them at our station, like at the next station. They had to work there through a good part of the night.
"Hasn't he come as usual?" mother asked, in answer to father's question. Rupert was so regular, it seemed astonishing he should fail.