“I didn’t hear any sound in Rosalie’s room when Loomis slammed the front door; so after a spell I went in to find her and try to make peace, but—” the speaker shook her head—“there wa’n’t any Rosalie. Her bed was made up neat and there was a note on her table. ‘I love you, dear Auntie Pogram, but I can’t stand it any longer. Don’t worry about me. If I’m in any trouble I promise to write to you.’”
Here, the fish not seeming equal to the occasion, Mrs. Pogram dabbed some tears from her own eyes.
“How long ago was this?” asked Irving.
“Only a few weeks, and I haven’t heard another word.”
“Your brother is satisfied, I suppose?”
“Well, he ain’t real comfortable, ’cause he knows I don’t mean to live and work all alone. I ain’t fit to; and he’s afraid now I’ll pay wages that’ll be a tax on the estate.”
Irving muttered something under his breath.
“Hey?” inquired his companion plaintively.
“I’m sorry for all this, Mrs. Pogram. You must tell Betsy about it. Her head is full of sensible ideas. Perhaps she can help you.”
“I’d like to see her,” returned the other mournfully. “How are you all?”