A sob stopped her, but Jennie was more calm.
"Momma's gone, Bob. Gussie went into her room about half past ten to take her the glass of milk we always put by her bed, and she was asleep."
They gathered round him as if he formed their rallying point. He took Jennie and Gussie each by the hand. Gladys held his coat by the lapel.
"You're not sorry, any of you, are you? She wanted to go; and she's gone in the sweetest of all ways."
"She won't have to hear about Teddy," Gussie wept. "That's a comfort, anyhow."
Gladys laid her head against Bob's breast.
"No; but Teddy'll have to hear about her."
Bob saw the opportunity. "No, Gladys; Teddy will not have to hear about her." He let this sink in. "Teddy—knows."
It was some seconds before Jennie and Gussie released his hands and Gladys let go his lapel. When they did they moved away silently. Gussie dropped on her knees at the arm of a big chair, bowing her head, and crying quietly. Jennie, a slim figure with hands behind her back, walked down the length of the room, staring at the curtained window toward Indiana Avenue. Gladys stood off, looking at Bob, nodding her head sagely, as she said:
"I thought that's what it meant when he didn't want us to come. He liked it better without saying good-by. So we all do." She gave a big, sudden sob, controlling herself as suddenly. "We're going to carry on, Bob. We're not going to show the white feather"—there was another big sob, with another successful effort to keep it back—"we're not going to show the white feather—any of us—just to please you."