She didn’t dare follow the thought to its conclusion. To lose the precious, hoarded days that she was counting, as a miser counts his treasure—oh, how could she bear it!
The outside door closed with unnecessary noise. After all, Sallie was human and must vent her feelings somehow! Cousin Penelope frowned. Was it with mere annoyance—or anxiety? For Sallie had come back into the room, and in her hand she carried a special delivery letter.
“It’s for you, Miss Penelope,” she said, rather grumpily.
“Wait a minute!” bade Cousin Penelope. She tore the bestamped envelope clumsily—and to be clumsy and in haste was not like Cousin Penelope. She gave one glance at the sheet that lay within. “We’ll not dine to-night until seven o’clock, tell Hannah,” she said, without lifting her eyes. “And you can lay two more places at table.”
She tore the letter into four pieces, with a quick, angered movement, as if she would have liked to tear something that could feel.
Sallie went out of the room. Caroline watched her go, in a kind of daze. She didn’t want to look at Aunt Eunice or Cousin Penelope. She didn’t want to ask questions. She almost knew what was coming.
“I thought it better not to tell you, Jacqueline,” said Cousin Penelope, in a voice of hard misery.
“There might have been some change of plans,” Aunt Eunice interrupted, gently and rather wearily. “We didn’t want you to be—disappointed. Of course you have looked forward to their coming.”
Caroline looked from Aunt Eunice’s distressed old face to Cousin Penelope’s averted, angry face. She knew that one was as sorry as the other. And she herself—where had her voice gone to? Was it like this when people died?
“I suppose,” she managed to whisper, after what seemed ages of heart-broken silence, “you mean—that they——”