Mr. Armstrong was sure of a welcome in our house. He had been a kind friend to us for many a long day.
Mother laid aside the grey wool, and set a chair for the lady, while I got another for Mr. Armstrong. He told us he had brought his sister-in-law, Mrs. Withers, to make our acquaintance; and then he thanked me for the chair, shaking hands. "Why, Kitty," said he, "you don't look well, child. What's the matter?" For indeed the fright had made me queer.
"Kitty don't seem just as she should be lately," mother said. "She has a sort of turn like that once in a way. Sit down, Kitty," says she.
I did as mother told me, trying not to let them see how I shook, and getting a little less frightened as the minutes went by, and they only talked of things in general.
"So your invalid has gone at last," Mr. Armstrong said to mother.
"Yes," said she; "and sorry we are to lose her. There's not many folks like Mary Russell."
"I am sure of that," said he. "She carries her goodness in her face."
"It's genuine out-and-out goodness too," father said. "Why, now, she's been like a mother to that young brother of hers."
"And he is grateful for it?" Mr. Armstrong spoke as if he was putting a question, not as if he was sure.
"No doubt," says father.