"Is some one comin', Aunt Sue?" Ann asked.
Her aunt did not answer at once. She looked at Ann steadily, long enough for a quiver of feeling to cross her face. Then she came around the bed, came close enough to Ann to put her hands on Ann's shoulders.
"Cousin Coats is comin', Ann," she said, her nasal drawl softened almost to huskiness.
Her father coming! The color of sudden and intense emotion swept into Ann's face, widening her eyes and parting her lips, a lift of joy and of craving combined that stifled her. It was a full moment before Ann could speak. Then she asked, "When—?"
"Sunday—to-morrow."
"When did you know?" Ann was quite white now.
"Last night—Ben Brokaw brought the letter."
"And you-all kept it to yourselves!" All the hurt and isolation of Ann's seventeen years spoke in her face and in her voice.
Sue was surprised by the passion of anger and pain. It was a tribute to Ann's power of concealment; she had not suspected this pent feeling.
"I didn't know you'd care so much," Sue said in a troubled way. "It seemed like you didn't care about anything, you're always so—gay. An' Coats has been away since you were a baby. I didn't think you'd care so much. I wanted to tell you, but your grandpa didn't want I should till we'd talked it over. And I was worried about your grandpa too—he was so excited."