“Your uncle hasn't gone out, has he?” asked Mrs. Woodbridge, feebly.
“No, Aunty, he's in his study walking to and fro as he's been all day, you know.”
“He musn't go out. I was afraid he'd gone out. Tell him I beg he will not go out. The mob will kill him.”
“I don't think he will go, Aunty.”
“Do you think they will make that terrible noise again tonight.”
“I—I don't know. I'm afraid so, Aunt Lucy.”
“Oh dear,” sighed the invalid, with a moan of exhaustion, “it don't seem as if I could live through it again, I'm so weak, and so tired. You can't think, dear, how tired I am.”
Desire went in and shook up the pillows, and soothed the sick woman with some little cares and then came out and shut the door. Her wide brimmed hat of fine leghorn straw with a blue ostrich plume curled around the crown, and a light cashmere shawl lay on the table. Perching the one a trifle sideways on her dark brown curls, which were gathered simply in a ribbon behind, according to the style of the day, she threw the shawl about her shoulders, and knocked at the door of her Uncle Jahleel's study, which also opened into the living-room, and was the apartment in which he held court, when acting as magistrate. In response to the knock the Squire opened the door. He looked as if he had had a fit of sickness, so deeply had the marks of chagrin and despite impressed itself on his face in the past two days.
“I'm going out for a little while,” said Desire, “and you will go to Aunty, if she calls, won't you?”
Her uncle nodded and resumed his walking to and fro, and Desire, stepping out of the house by a back way, went by a path across the fields, toward Elnathan Hamlin's house.