"Where's Mr. Gallatin?" asked Winchie, as he and his mother were finishing breakfast next morning.
"At the Smoke House, I guess," replied she. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and their lids were heavy. Although Lizzie had been unusually unsuccessful in arranging the flowers, she left the bowl untouched in the center of the table—a solid mass of carnations which she could have changed into a miracle of lightness and grace.
"Is he coming to breakfast?" asked Winchie.
"No—at least, I suppose not. How'd you like to go to grandpa's?"
"Will Mr. Gallatin go?"
Courtney's cheeks flushed. "No," she said.
"Then I'd like it—for a while."
"We are going to-morrow," said Courtney. "To-morrow morning."
"Is grandpa sick?"
"No. Nobody is sick."