"No. But—"
"Well, you may as well read your precious document now you have got it. After all this fuss! Mittie, my sweet, don't cry any more. You will make such a fright of yourself. Come, it's all right now. We'll have a drive to-morrow, and you shall have a franc to spend in chocolate."
This proved consoling, and Mittie's weeping ceased with astonishing speed. She sat up and began to smile, casting curious glances at her aunt, who had not yet opened the letter, but remained with fixed eyes and cheeks white as paper.
"What is the matter with you?" Francesca asked at length, and Mittie echoed the question in another form— "Aunt Julia, are you cross still?"
Julia could not have answered the first question. She did not know what was the matter with her. It was not crossness, but the moment's horror had stunned her faculties. Suppose Mittie had gone over, and suppose—suppose—only a little corpse had been brought up from the street below! What would life have been after? and how must Francesca have felt? and what would Harvey have thought—nay, what must he not think now? Of course the child was wrong—wilful, pert, disagreeable; but what of her own ungoverned excitement? Julia grew paler and sadder as she thought. And it was all on account of this letter, of her love for Harvey! She did not feel worthy to open and read it yet, though her heart was craving for news.
"Do see what Harvey says, and don't sit staring at nothing in that absurd way," Francesca at length said impatiently.
To Julia's surprise, Mittie spoke up in her defence. "Mother, Aunt Julia isn't absurd. I expect she's only sorry."
Mittie quitted her mother, and went across to the chair in which Julia sat.
"Are you sorry, Aunt Julia?" she asked. "You're not cross with me now? I won't plague you again."
"Kiss me, Mittie," whispered Julia.