“Do you mean—Uncle David, Aunt Margaret?”
“Yes, dear,” Margaret smiled at her bravely.
“And does Aunt Gertrude care about Uncle Jimmie?”
“She has for a good many years, I think.”
Eleanor covered her face with her hands.
“I didn’t know that,” she said. “I wish somebody had told me.” She pushed Margaret’s arm away from her gently, but her breath came hard. “Don’t touch me,” she cried, “I can’t bear it. You might not want to—if you knew. Please go,—oh! please go—oh! please go.”
As Margaret closed the door gently between them, she saw Eleanor throw her head back, and push the back of her hand hard against her mouth, as if to stifle the rising cry of her anguish.
The next morning Eleanor was gone. Margaret had listened for hours in the night but had heard not so much as the rustle of a garment from the room beyond. Toward morning she had fallen into the sleep of exhaustion. It was then that the stricken child had made her escape. “Miss Hamlin had found that she must take the early train,” 269 the clerk said, “and left this note for Miss Hutchinson.” It was like Eleanor to do things decently and in order.