have written. And yet—I cannot think I am
wrong to write.”
“Ever your loving child,” “MAIMIE.”
And that was all. A tear seemed to have fallen and blotted the name. We did as Maimie wished, and said nothing about my letter.
A month passed from that day, and Maimie had not once been to see us, had not once written by post. Robert and I understood; and Cherry’s confidence in Maimie was never shaken. But Jack looked often very unhappy. I began to think at last that I would tell him of the letter I had had.
Then suddenly, one day, when we were all sitting at early dinner on Saturday, my husband and Jack being at home, there came a telegram.
Robert opened it with nervous fingers, and I saw Jack’s ruddy face turn pale. I think we all fancied at the moment that it meant ill news of our Maimie.
“From Churton,” Robert said; and he read aloud: “'Aunt B. died this morning; paralytic stroke last night; unconscious to the last.’”
A silence fell upon us. No one seemed to know exactly what to say. My husband looked really grieved; but it was impossible that much of real affection should be felt by most of us for the poor old lady; and Jack’s face told of relief. It had been a very different matter when her dear tender-hearted old husband had died. That was a loss to us indeed.
“I must go this afternoon,” Robert said presently.