The door opened, and a female entered, wrapped in a dark red cloak—the hood of which she put modestly back, revealing as fair a face as you often look upon in an entire lifetime.
CHAPTER XI.
KATHARINE ALLEN'S VISIT TO THE WHITE COTTAGE.
"Oh, Katharine Allen, is that you?" said Mrs. Mason, with a touch of disappointment in her voice, which the girl noticed with a pang.
"Yes, Mrs. Mason, I had got through my day's work, and so ran down once more to see if—if you had heard any thing yet."
"Yes, I thought so—it must be a comfort to have some one to run to—I haven't a living soul!" said Mrs. Mason, a little petulantly, for Katharine had been at the house more than once to ask these same questions, and the young wife always shrank from acknowledging that she had no good news. This feeling became more and more painful as the time wore on, and her own heart grew faint with apprehension.
"Not a word? Haven't you heard any thing?" faltered the young girl, sinking into a chair, and turning her great blue eyes on Mrs. Mason, with an intensity of suffering that startled the unhappy woman into a momentary forgetfulness of her own anxieties.
"No, Katharine, not one word. It breaks my heart to own it, but not a breath of news has reached me since the brig sailed."
"And she ought to have been in weeks ago! What can be the matter, Mrs. Mason? tell me, oh do tell me, if you have the least idea!"
"I can only guess like yourself, Kate. The ocean is a treacherous thing to trust those you love with. The storm of a single night may have made little Rose an orphan."