"Then say them over to the boy, and make him remember them," said Rosamund; and that was the advice which Grace, in the desperate necessity of her heart, followed. A few mornings afterward, when Rosamund came in sight of the cottage, Joe was leaning against the door. He went inside when he saw her, and Rosamund turned back. She told herself that in Grace's place she would want no visitors for a while.
But she had not gone far before Grace came hastening after her. She threw her arms about Rosamund's neck.
"I got my man back," she whispered. "I'm prayin' every minute to the good Lord, Miss Rose, that you'll get yours back, too, all safe an' sound."
But the secret of Eleanor's heart was not so readily disclosed, although Rosamund suspected, from the number of telegrams and letters that were coming, and from Eleanor's frequent look of abstraction, that she was beginning to have a good deal to think about. But how far matters had progressed, she did not suspect; for Eleanor's heart was troubled as it had never been, and she would not add to Rosamund's burden of care by confiding her own.
That she was suffering could not escape the keen eyes of Mother Cary, however.
"Ain't you troubled about somethin', dearie?" the old woman asked, one day when Rosamund and Tim were out of doors, and dinner was cooking, and they two were alone.
Eleanor looked at her dumbly; a quiver passed over her face, seeming to leave it whiter than ever.
"Land!" said Mother Cary. "Don't look that a way, honey! No wonder little Timmy used to call you 'White Lady'!"
She seated herself in the little chair with the legs that Father Cary had sawed off to suit her, and drew another up beside it.
"Now you come set down here by your Ma Cary, lamb, an' tell me what's the matter."