“So we went over there together, and when I saw it——”
“It was that building with the pillars?” asked Blake.
“The very one,” said Mrs. Bush. “And then Dad died too.”
She put her hands down among the potato peelings and thought about it for a minute.
“But it worries me, what she must think of me,” she said. “If I had only known she was dying. Dying, in front of my eyes, and me not doing anything about it. I wish she’d let me tell her. Lots of times I feel people I used to know around me, listening to me when I’m talking to them. The way you do in your head. But I never have that feeling about her. If she’d only let me tell her.”
Blake said, “Oh, she knows.”
“How do you know?” cried Mrs. Bush, savagely.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The screen-door slammed once, and Girt looked up hopefully, but decided it was a breeze. She should have known better, for there had been no breeze in Santa Fé for a week. But she was deep in the latest copy of “Screenland” and could spare time only for the paper bag of chocolates next to her.
The door slammed three times, and Teddy called out indignantly, “Anybody home?”