“What things, mother?”
“About not believing—you know. You didn’t mean what you said, darling, of course—and I’m not preaching to you. You know I promised long ago that I would never talk about religion to you children, nor influence you. I’ve kept my word. But this is different. Religion—well, we don’t all agree in this world. But God—God’s for everybody, just the same, dear. But then,” she added, quickly, “I know you didn’t really mean what you said. Only keep the thought away, when it comes.”
Katharine said nothing, but she nodded gravely and kissed her mother on both cheeks. At the last moment, as she was going to the door, she stopped and turned back.
“I’m awfully sorry to bother you, mother dear,” she said, “but I’ve got no money—not even twenty-five cents. Could you give me something? I don’t like to be out with nothing at all in my pocket.”
The deprecating tone, the real, earnest regret at being obliged to ask for even such a trifle, told the tale of what had gone on in the house, unknown to the world, for years, far better than any words could have done.
“Of course, child—I always have something, you know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, promptly. “Here are ten dollars.”
“Oh—I don’t want so much!” cried Katharine. “I’m not going to buy anything—it’s only for horse-cars, and things like that. Give me a dollar and a little change, if you have it.”
But Mrs. Lauderdale insisted that she should take the note.
“I don’t want you to go to uncle Robert’s without a penny in your pocket. It looks like poor relations.”
“Well—you’re always generous, mother,” answered the young girl, with a little laugh. “But it’s papa’s relation, and not yours.”