The old voice was tremulous.
Jacqueline dumbly stroked the hand that held hers. She couldn’t seem to speak, yet she did so want to say: “I’m sorry!” Wasn’t it odd that in all her life she had never once been able to say those two words? She couldn’t say them now, though her throat was dry and her eyes were aching with tears that she didn’t mean to shed. She pressed Grandma’s hand hard.
“I’m going to get you some new cups.” That was what she said at last. “Thin as egg-shells. I didn’t mean to break yours. I—I won’t let you work so hard to-morrow, Grandma.”
“There, there, child! ’Course you didn’t mean to break ’em.”
Their hands fell apart. Folks didn’t kiss and cuddle much in the Conway household.
“Get yourself something to eat before you go to bed, Jackie. I put some top-milk in the blue pitcher for you, and left it in the cellar-way.”
“Thank you, Grandma.”
“There’s fresh raisin cookies, too, in the tin. Good-night, Jackie.”
“Good-night, Grandma.”
Very softly Jackie stole back into the kitchen. She found Aunt Martha lighting the burner beneath the big kettle.