But Ankaret and Susanna declined to touch the work, the latter cynically offering to lend her apron to Avice.
As Avice scrubbed away, she began to regret her errand. To be afflicted with such a lifelong companion as one of these lively young ladies would be far worse than solitude. But where was the youngest?—the quiet little Bertha, who took after her peaceable father, and whom Avice had rarely heard to speak? She asked Eleanor for her youngest sister.
“Oh, she’s somewhere,” said Eleanor carelessly.
“She took her work down to the brook,” added Mildred. “She’s been crying her eyes out over Emma’s going.”
“Ay, Emma and Bertha are the white chicks among the black,” said Eleanor, laughing; “they’ll miss each other finely, I’ve no doubt.”
Avice finished her work, returned Susanna’s apron, and instead of requesting advice from her Aunt, went down to the brook in search of Bertha. She found her sitting on a green bank, with very red eyes.
“Well, my dear heart?” said Avice kindly to Bertha.
The kind tone brought poor Bertha’s tears back. She could only sob out—“Emma’s gone!”
“And thou art all alone, my child,” said Avice, stroking her hair. She knew that loneliness in a crowd is the worst loneliness of all. “Well, so am I; and mine errand this very day was to see if I could prevail on thy mother to grant me one of her young maids to dwell with me. What sayest thou? shall I ask her for thee?”
“O Cousin! I would be so—” Bertha’s ecstatic tone went no farther. It was in quite a different voice that she said—“But then there’s Father! Oh no, Cousin. Thank you so much, but it won’t do.”