"Not a sign of him. If it was anybody else, I'd say he was lazy; but Rupert's not given to laziness. I'm afraid he can't be well," father went on. "We shall hear presently."
Just at the moment I did not remember what Rupert had said to me the evening before. It would be thought more natural for me to remember at once, but I didn't. My head was so full of the thought of Mr. Russell.
"Anybody come or go?" mother asked. It was the very question I wanted to put, only I had not courage.
"Russell has left. That's all," father said.
Then he was really gone! A sick feeling came over me, and I couldn't eat my breakfast. I knew mother saw, and I knew she wouldn't say a word: she'd always such a notion of the harm done by too many words. But father happened to look my way. "Why—Kitty!" says he. "The child's not well."
"She has had too much to do lately," said mother. "Kitty's not overstrong."
"Why, she's as white—" father said. "Come here, Kitty, and let's see what's wrong."
I came as I was bidden, and he took hold of me, looking hard. I couldn't stand that. The next moment I was clinging to him, with my face down on his shoulder.
Maybe mother made him some sort of sign. I shouldn't wonder if she did; for he cuddled me in his arms as if I'd been a small child again, and whispered— "Poor little kittenkins!" once or twice, which was my old nursery name. But he didn't ask any more questions.
"She's been a good girl to help so steady all through Mary's illness," mother said presently. "I wish now I'd had a girl in to help; and I might have done it, but I thought I'd lay by what the Russells paid us. Maybe I've been penny wise and pound foolish, for once. But I did think, too, the work was good for Kitty."