"I don't know."
And, indeed, she did not know, never having taken a thought of that portion of Thrasher's letter; even the epistle itself only whirled through the chaos of her mind, like dead leaves in a tempest.
Mrs. Allen examined the money again, while Katharine eyed her with the sharp cunning of insanity.
"How you shake, child? The open door has given you a chill."
"It was too warm! too warm!" muttered the poor creature; "crimson hot, crimson hot!"
Mrs. Allen was so surprised with the money that she did not heed the strange murmur of her daughter. She put the bills away in an old teapot in the corner cupboard. Then something struck her as unnatural in the stillness of the room, and she went back again.
"Is the baby asleep yet?" she inquired, sitting down by the bed.
Katharine shrunk away from her; but answered in a quick, eager way:
"Yes; it sleeps sweetly, sweetly, sweetly."
This strange repetition of one word drew Mrs. Allen's attention more closely to the invalid. There was something strange in her face—a gleam of vigilant cunning in the eyes that made the mother anxious.