Alexander sustained his “child” through all the last trying scene by the open grave. And when it was closed he took her home.
On entering the house he gave her into the charge of the motherly Molly, with orders that she, Drusilla, should take a cup of tea, and go to her room and lie down for the rest of the day. This was Thursday.
On Friday Alexander wrote to his cousin, giving an account of the housekeeper’s death and burial, and saying that henceforth he intended to adopt Drusilla, and that he should take her back to school on the following Monday.
Could Alexander have foreseen the bitter mortification he was destined to meet there he would as soon have plunged into a fire as entered that school-house.
Drusilla, grieving incessantly, kept her room until Sunday, when she came down to breakfast for the first time since the funeral.
Alexander received her as if she had indeed been his daughter or his beloved younger sister. He kissed her and placed her in her seat. In the course of the meal he told her that on the next day he should take her back to the Irving Institute to resume and continue her studies until she should graduate.
Drusilla tried to express her acquiescence in the plan, and her thanks for his kindness, but her voice faltered, and her eyes filled with tears.
He looked wistfully in her face and read her thoughts, and answered them.
“You weep at the idea of being sent away from——” He hesitated, and then continued: “from all you have left to love at a time when you want so much consolation. My dear child it is necessary for more reasons than one. But I shall spend the winter here as usual, Drusilla, and I will go to see you at the school at least twice a week.”
“I know that you are very good and all that you do is perfectly right. I do not question these. But I must weep a little, and I feel you will have patience with your child,” she murmured.