“The same evening, my dear. The evening of the day on which the brigade marched,” said the widow, placing the empty tumbler on the table, and taking the chair nearest her visitor.
“Yes?” exclaimed Erminie, in tearful eagerness.
“You never heard of anything so sudden in your life! You know, your old negro man, Uncle Bob, had been here in the morning to bring her a note.”
“It was from me.”
“Well; so she went away with Uncle Bob, and staid away all day.”
“She was with me.”
“At seven o’clock, while we were at tea—I and my girls—she came in. I jumped up to make fresh tea for her; but she stopped me, saying that she would take nothing then, but might make a cup for herself by and by. And so she hurried through the parlor and up into her own bed-room. She looked very much agitated, and that is the sacred truth. I spoke of her appearance to my girls; and they thought it was because she was grieving after some friends who might have gone with the brigade.”
“Yes, that was it,” said Erminie, frankly.
“Later in the evening she came down. I and my girls were still at work. I thought she wanted her tea, and again I got up to make her some; but again she stopped me, saying something like this:
“‘Mrs. Burton, I am about to leave you—I must do so to-night. Would you mind sending Johnny to call a carriage for me?’