“To be sure he did,” said the old woman, hastily. “They were always fond of each other, as brothers ought to be.”
“But this one particular instance of love,—what was it, Catty?”
The old woman started, and looked eagerly around the room, as though to assure herself that they were alone; then, drawing her chair close to Mary's, she said, in a low voice: “Don't ask me any more about them things, darling. 'T is past and gone many a year now, and I 'd rather never think of it more, for I 've a heavy heart after it.”
“So, then, it is a secret, Catty?” said Mary, half proudly.
“A secret, indeed,” said Catty, shaking her head mournfully.
“Then you need only to have said so, and I'd not have importuned you to tell it; for, to say truth, Catty, I never knew you had any secrets from me.”
“Nor have I another, except this, darling,” said Catty; and she buried her face within her hands. And now both sat in silence for some minutes,—a most painful silence to each. At last Mary arose, and, although evidently trying to overcome it, a feeling of constraint was marked in her features.
“You'd never guess how late it is, Catty,” said she, trying to change the current of her thoughts. “You 'd not believe it is past three o'clock; how pleasantly we must have talked, to forget time in this way!”
But the old woman made no reply, and it was clear that she had never heard the words, so deeply was she sunk in her own reflections.
“This poor hat of mine will scarcely do another day's service,” said Mary, as she looked at it half laughingly. “Nor is my habit the fresher of its bath in the 'Red River;' and the worst of it is, Catty, I have overdrawn my quarter's allowance, and must live on, in rags, till Easter. I see, old lady, you have no sympathies to waste on me and my calamities this evening,” added she, gayly, “and so I'll just go to bed and, if I can, dream pleasantly.”