I swept on after mother without even giving one glance at the angry face I left behind, without listening to the suppressed murmur that ran round, without even seeing the vexed, distressed look on the squire's face close beside me. My heart was very sore, and not the less so because I had missed around the grave one face that I had made quite sure would be there.
The squire and I had never spoken again of Trayton Harrod since that day when he had begged me to leave the recalling of him to his discretion. I don't think I had seen him more than once during that time, and then it had been about the arrangements for the funeral, when I should not have liked to speak to him on such an apparently trivial matter, however much I might have wished to do so. But all through the dreadful days when we three had sat silently in the darkened parlor, hearing no news from without save messages of condolence and flower-tokens of humble friendship, brought in by old Deb with her swollen eyelids—all through the time when we were waiting till they should take away from us forever that which was left of what had once been our own, there had come sudden waves of unbidden remembrance mingling with my holy sorrow for the dead, and interwoven with my regrets over the much I might have done for my dear father which it was now too late ever to do, were other genuinely contrite thoughts, which I resolved should not be without fruit.
I wanted to make amends for my wrong-doing, and Trayton Harrod would not give me the chance. Where was he? Surely by this time he must have heard of our trouble. How could he remain away? And as the dull hours wore on from morning to evening and from evening to morning again, I longed to see him with a heart-sick longing that not even my tears could quench; I longed to see him, though his face might be ever so stern, his voice ever so cruel, his hand ever so cold.
But he did not come, and on the fourth day after the funeral, mother, awaking slowly to the knowledge of outer things and people, asked for him. "Meg," she said, "it's very strange that Mr. Harrod hasn't been near us all this time of our trouble. Is he sick, do you know?"
"I haven't heard, mother," said I, faintly; "but I believe he has been away."
"Away!" echoed mother. "Well, then, he might have come back again, I think. I wouldn't have believed he was such a fair-weather friend as that. I thought of him so differently."
My heart swelled with a bitter remorse, for deep down there was a little voice that told me that if Harrod was away I was not without blame for it.
"You and he haven't had a quarrel, have you?" said mother, after a bit.
"A quarrel!" repeated I, faintly. "Oh no!"
"Well, I'm glad of that," answered she. "He's a nice lad, and it's a pity to lose a friend. I fancied he might have been speaking to you about something you didn't choose to be spoken to about. I'm glad it isn't so. I wonder what keeps him away. And not so much as a line. Well, I dare say he'll be back to-morrow."