Sue was standing very still—in order not to uncover a vestige of boy. She smiled, half wistfully, half mischievously. "Just—er—in the Church, mother." She had her own way of saying "mother." On her lips it was no mere title, lightly used. Her very prolonging of the "r" gave the word all the tender meanings—undivided love, and loyalty, protection, yet dependence. She spoke it like a caress.
Mrs. Milo recognized in her daughter's tone an apology for something. Quick suspicion took the place of reproval. "And what were you doing in the Church?"—with a rising inflection.
"Well, I—I was sort of—poking around."
"St!"—an exclamation of impatience. Then, "Churches are not made to poke in."
Now there came to Sue that look that suggested a little girl, and a naughty little girl at that. She turned on her mother a beguiling smile. "I—I was—er—poking in the vestry," she explained.
Mrs. Milo observed that the bay-window held a young person in white satin, who was sitting very still, and was all attention. She managed a faint returning smile, therefore, and assumed a playful tone. "The vestry is not a part of your duties as secretary," she reminded. "And there's so much to do, my daughter,—the decorations, the caterer, the——"
"I know, mother. I shan't neglect a thing." Sue swayed a little, to the clutch of a small hand dragging at her skirt.
"And as I've said before, I prefer that you'd take all of Mr. Farvel's dictation in the library; I don't want you hanging about in the vestry unless I'm with you.—Will you please pay attention to what I'm saying?"—this with much patience.
Over one arm, folded, Sue carried a garment of ministerial black. This she now unfolded and spread, the better to hide the boy crouching closest at her back. "Oh, yes, mother dear," she admitted reassuringly. "Yes."
"And what is that you have?" The tone might have been used to a child.