He opened the gate, and they passed up the walk to the house. Mr. Thrasher knocked, but there was no response; a second time, but no better success.
"Maybe we might go in," whispered his wife, but he shook his head, and again tapped upon the door.
After another instant of suspense, which seemed very long to them, they heard footsteps, the latch was lifted from within, the door slowly opened, and Mrs. Allen stood before them, so changed by those terrible days, that the old friends of years could hardly feel that it was her.
When Mrs. Allen saw who stood there, she started a little, and the old pride gathered slowly over the anguish of her face.
"We—we came to ask how Katharine is," Mrs. Thrasher said, faintly, taking it upon herself to break the silence.
"She is better," returned the widow, neither moving to give them entrance, or turning her eyes from that steady gaze.
"Do you think I could see her?" persisted the old lady, trembling all over and ready to cry aloud.
"Nobody sees her but the doctor," replied Mrs. Allen.
"I thought maybe I could do something—"
"There isn't any thing to do."