It was true, as Margaret had said, that she did not want any favors at Mr. De Jarnette's hands. She was angry with him for placing her under obligation in the matter of the carriage: angry at herself for allowing him to do it: and angry and hurt both at Mrs. Pennybacker's censure. They ought to know how she would feel, she told herself, with that isolation of soul which comes to us when our nearest friends fail to understand.
But when she found herself the next morning at the little country station a mile and a half from Elmhurst in a drizzling rain, saw a solitary carriage in waiting, and heard a respectful voice that belonged to a past age saying, as a respectful hat was raised from a grizzled old head, "Is you de lady wha's goin' to Elmhurst, ma'am?" she could not but acknowledge to herself that her brother-in-law knew more about conditions than she did and had thoughtfully prepared for them.
"Yaas 'm," the old driver explained as she stepped into the carriage, "Marse Richard he say you'd be comin' out pretty cornstant fur a while an' I was to keep de carriage up dem days so's you could have it whenuver you say de word. He 'low you'd mos' likely not want it tell evenin'."
"I shall want it in about an hour," she said, with a sinking sense of the shortness of the time, "to meet the noon train." Then she clenched her hands in a swift fierce anger that this man should be able to impose restrictions upon her movements.
When she reached the house and got Philip in her arms she was almost sorry she had committed herself. How quickly the time was flying!
She had hoped that the child would not be unhappy, but she was mortally afraid of his ceasing to mourn for her. Her illness had kept her away so long, and he was so young! Mammy Cely with intuitive tact dilated upon the scenes of those first few nights when he had refused to be comforted, and it was all as manna to her hungry soul. Then Philip, expecting commendation, said "But I don't cwy any more, mama. Unker Wichard bwings me candy, and he says I'm a good little boy now."
"Philip," she cried despairingly, "don't you care for mama as you did at first? Don't you still want her at night?"
It seemed to her she could not bear it.
"Why, yes, mama," the child said wonderingly, "but you said I must be bwave."
She caught him to her arms in a passion of jealousy. After all, bravery was an unnatural virtue in a child.