It was the judge's last consecutive sentence for some time. All the company stared in equal amazement and apprehension, as Edna suddenly bowed her head on the lawyer's little broadcloth shoulder, and shook him with her sobs.
"Edna!" exclaimed Dunham, stepping forward, and he was unconscious of the severity of his voice. "Do you know you're frightening us? Where is Sylvia?"
"G-gone!"
"Where, for mercy's sake?" demanded Miss Martha tremulously.
"H-home, to the Tide Mill." Edna managed to jerk out the words. "W-wait a minute."
As soon as she could lift her head and wipe her eyes, a process which gave Judge Trent infinite relief, she saw John's face grown so white under its tan that it helped her to become steady.
"She's—safe, I'm sure," she said. "We had—a misunderstanding, and it was all my fault, and I suppose she left this noon as soon as she could get away from us. She left a note for me. I found it when I came up to knock on her door. She said she was homesick."
"I don't understand at all," said Judge Trent. "Sylvia gone back to the farm, without a by-your-leave to her hostess? Confoundedly bad manners I call it." The lawyer's thought was creaking through unaccustomed ruts. He had been cheated out of Sylvia's companionship, after all, and his favorite Edna was in tears. He could not understand, and his frown was portentous.
"It is my fault," repeated Edna. "Spare me from explaining, because in the morning I shall go over to the farm myself and make things right."
"Just like that erratic father of hers. No manners," declared the lawyer.