"Not a mite."
"Then I suppose, after all, she never did care anything for Bertram," mused Mrs. Porter. "It was as well, perhaps, for him that she shocked him out of his dream. As well for him—not for her, poor child, it wasn't well for her to be cruel."
"I don't want to be too hard on her," said Miss Barry. "Maybe she wasn't really responsible. Land! What we went through! Well," she added, briskness coming into her voice, "that chapter's closed."
"Let me," said Mrs. Porter, "let me be the one to ask Linda for the letter. You have been so tried, Miss Barry. I don't want to ask you to reopen the sorrowful chapter; but I long to see what Bertram has to say. I have always thought him an extraordinary young fellow and respected him as much as I loved him."
"Just so. Just so," responded Miss Barry warmly. "All right. You ask for the letter. I pass my niece over to you now."
They had reached the porch of the shingled cottage and in another minute they walked in upon Linda's presentation scene.
Miss Barry was quite prompt in following her maid into the kitchen, but the minute's delay in hanging up her hat and coat was sufficient for all sign of the candy boxes to have disappeared. When she opened the door Blanche Aurora was at the sink letting floods of hot water into the dishpan and singing with vigor, "A charge to keep I have," meanwhile rattling pans and china, the whole giving an amazing effect of clatter.
Miss Barry involuntarily clapped her hands to her ears.
"You needn't sing," she remarked loudly.
"All right," returned the help, ceasing, "but you told me 'twas good for my lungs."