At five o’clock, work was put aside and there was an inrush of treaters. For the first time, Mary Louise’s hands shook and she slopped the tea in the saucers and behaved like the tired nervous little person she had a right to be.
“How can people eat so much at this time of day when they are all going home to late dinners or suppers?” she whispered to Irene, who was sedately baking waffles.
“Don’t put that into their heads,” laughed Irene. “But, honey, you are tired, aren’t you?”
“No, not tired—just—”
“I know! Run on out doors. You need some air. I can serve these few persons.”
“No, I’ll wait until after dark. I feel, somehow, as though I could not face the light.” Mary Louise forced back the tears that had been trying all day to find the proper outlet.
Irene and Elizabeth had gone home and Mary Louise was left alone in the shop. Josie telephoned she would be late, not to wait supper for her. Evidently there was important business on hand with Chief Lonsdale.
“If you are lonesome, run on to Irene’s,” suggested Josie. “I’ll come and pick you up and we’ll come home together about ten.”
“Oh, no, I’m not the least bit lonesome,” declared Mary Louise, stoutly. The fact was she was pleased to be alone for a while with her sad, sad thoughts. She could not bear to burden her kind good friends with the sorrow that sometimes enveloped her, and it was a relief to find solitude when she might give way to her grief without feeling that she was distressing anyone.
“I feel that I must see the old house once more,” she said to herself, “just once before strangers go in it.”