“Poor uncle Robert!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, seating herself, after kissing the young girl’s forehead.
She was a little pale with natural excitement, and she was certainly not looking her best in a black frock which was far from new, but which had to do duty until she could have mourning made. Katharine said nothing in answer, but nodded her head on the pillow. She wondered whether her mother knew that she had broken her arm. But in this she did her an injustice.
“Was your wrist much hurt?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, almost immediately.
Then she caught sight of the splints and bandages and the purple fingers, as Katharine lifted the coverlet a little. Instantly her face changed.
“Heavens, child! What have you done to yourself?” she cried, springing to her feet and bending over to look.
“Papa broke my arm,” answered Katharine, quietly.
“Your father—broke your arm?” Mrs. Lauderdale spoke with the utmost astonishment, mingled with unbelief.
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? It was last night—that—all the confusion and trouble have killed poor uncle Robert. Didn’t papa tell you anything?” Katharine stared at her mother.
“He came home and said he had hurt his mouth. I could not get him to say what had happened to him. To tell the truth, I was rather worried. It’s so unlike him to hurt himself, or have any accident. He said it was a ridiculous affair, and that he didn’t choose to be laughed at, and begged me to say nothing more about it. You know how he is. But he never mentioned you.”
Katharine said nothing for a few moments. She wondered how wise it might turn to be to tell her mother all that had happened. But the instinct of child to mother overcame hesitation. Her mother had begun to take her part again, and the broken sympathy was being restored by bits and pieces, as it were.