After he had gone Constance pressed her hand down on the top of her head and said distractedly, “Still no word of encouragement; no relief to this strain that seems to be tearing my brain asunder!”
Under the circumstances, inaction, to one of Hazel’s temperament, was anything but pleasant, and the young girl was to be condoned rather than censured for desiring to get away from the distress that pervaded the house. Moreover, she felt that something must be done to relieve the strain that weighed so heavily upon Constance.
“Don’t you think I had better see Mrs. Harris, dear?” she said, with a wistful look of sympathy at Constance. “Perhaps she may have something to tell.”
“Very well,” replied Constance. “Do, dear, if you think some good may come from your visit. Virginia may be home soon and I shall not be alone.”
“I shall get my wraps.”
After Hazel had left the room, Constance, dispirited and sadly out of harmony with Smith’s simple recital of his search for Dorothy, stepped out on the piazza, as though the air of the close room oppressed her.
The sky was cloudy, the air raw and cold.
Dorothy’s pet canary, with its bill thrust under its wing, rested on the perch of its cage, glum and inert, immediately before her.
“Poor thing!” she exclaimed tenderly. “Sweet, sweet! Look up, pet!”
The dainty little beauty, with a throat of silky mellowness, looked curiously about, gave a “cheep” of recognition and then again buried its bill under its wing.