‘I suppose so,’ Caroline answered, yawning; ‘but what are we going to do with him?’
‘Conceal him, of course,’ Charlotte answered briskly, ‘and answer for him with our lives. Until the answer comes to the Indian letter.’
‘The letter didn’t go, you know,’ Caroline reminded her, and put one foot out of bed.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Charlotte asked. ‘You don’t seem a bit keen.’
‘I don’t feel keen,’ Caroline answered. ‘I wish it hadn’t happened. I feel as if I didn’t want to do anything but to be quiet and have nothing happen, like it used to. My inside mind feels quite stiff and sore.’
‘That’s using it so much yesterday; being so clever, you know. Of course your mind feels stiff. It isn’t used to it,’ said Charlotte brightly, bounced off the bed and ran to draw the curtains. ‘Oh!’ she said, and stood quite still with the curtain in her hand.
‘What?’ Caroline asked anxiously, for the tone was tragic.
‘It’s raining,’ said Charlotte; ‘that’s all. Hard.’
‘How awful,’ said Caroline.
Somehow no one had expected it to rain. The sun had shone now for days and days, and it had seemed as though it must always go on shining.