It was on the third day that Nollie Tresselton telephoned. She was in town, and asked if she might see Mrs. Clephane at once. The very sound of her voice brought reassurance; and Kate Clephane sat counting the minutes till she appeared.
She had come up from the Drovers’, as Kate had guessed; and she brought an embarrassed message of apology from Anne. “She couldn’t write—she’s too upset. But she’s so sorry for what she said ... for the way she said it. You must try to forgive her....”
“Oh, forgive her—that’s nothing!” the mother cried, her eyes searching the other’s face. But Nollie’s vivid features were obscured by the embarrassment of the message she had brought. She looked as if she were tangled in Anne’s confusion.
“That’s nothing,” Kate Clephane repeated. “I hurt her horribly too—I had to. I couldn’t expect her to understand.”
Mrs. Tresselton looked relieved. “Ah, you do see that? I knew you would! I told her so—” She hesitated, and then went on, with a slight tremor in her voice: “Your taking it in that way will make it all so much easier—”
But she stopped again, and Kate, with a sinking heart, stood up. “Nollie; she wants me to go?”
“No, no! How could you imagine it? She wants you to look upon this house as yours; she has always wanted it.”
“But she’s not coming back to it?”
The younger woman laid a pleading hand on Mrs. Clephane’s arm. “Aunt Kate—you must be patient. She feels she can’t; not now, at any rate.”
“Not now? Then it’s she who hasn’t forgiven?”