She led her into the room and closed the door.
“You are very cold and your shawl is wet,” laying a kind hand upon it. “Give it to me, and take a seat by the fire. You must warm yourself thoroughly and have a cup of tea,” she said, “and then I will begin to ask questions.”
There was a wide, low-seated, low-armed, soft-cushioned chair at one side of the fire, and in this chair she had made Joan seat herself. The sudden change from the chill dampness of the winter day to the exquisite relief and rest, almost overcame the girl. She was deadly pale when Mrs. Galloway ceased, and her lips trembled; she tried to speak, and for a moment could not; tears rushed to her eyes and stood in them. But she managed to answer at last.
“I beg yo're pardon,” she said. “Yo' ha' no need to moind me. Th' warmth has made me a bit faint, that's aw. I've noan been used to it lately.”
Mrs. Galloway came and stood near her.
“I am sorry to hear that, my dear,” she said.
“Yo're very kind, ma'am,” Joan answered.
She drew the letter from her dress and handed it to her.
“I getten that fro' Miss Anice the neet I left Riggan,” she said.
When the tea was brought in and Joan had sat down, the old lady read the letter.