"I see"—a sorrowful look crossed his face; he took my hand and kissed it. Veronica, who had dropped the screen, met my glance toward her with one perfectly impassive. As they watched me, I saw myself as they did. A tall girl in gray, whose deep, controlled voice vibrated in their ears, like the far-off sounds we hear at night from woods or the sea, whose face was ineffaceably marked, whose air impressed with a sense of mystery. I think both would have annihilated my personality if possible, for the sake of comprehending me, for both loved me in their way.
"What are you reading, father?" asked Veronica suddenly.
"To-day's letters, and I must be off for Boston; would you like to go?"
"My sister Adelaide has sent for you, Cassandra, to visit us," said
Ben, "and will you go too, Veronica?"
"Thanks, I must decline. If Cass should go—and she will—I may go to
Boston."
He looked at her curiously. "It would not be pleasant for you to attempt Belem. I hate it, but I feel a fate-impelling power in regard to Cassandra; I want her there."
"May I go then?" I asked.
"Certainly," father replied.
"Please come out to supper," called Fanny. "We have something particular for you, Mr. Morgeson."
We saw mother at the table, a book in her hand. She was finishing a chapter in "The Hour and the Man." Aunt Merce stood eyeing the dishes with the aspect of a judge. As father took his seat, near Veronica, Fanny, according to habit, stood behind it. With the most degagé air, Ben suffered nothing to escape him, and I never forgot the picture of that moment.