A FOOTSTEP
It was cold enough for fires in halls and bedrooms, and Lady Anstruthers often sat over hers and watched the glowing bed of coals with a fixed thoughtfulness of look. She was so sitting when her sister went to her room to talk to her, and she looked up questioningly when the door closed and Betty came towards her.
“You have come to tell me something,” she said.
A slight shade of anxiousness showed itself in her eyes, and Betty sat down by her and took her hand. She had come because what she knew was that Rosalie must be prepared for any step taken, and the time had arrived when she must not be allowed to remain in ignorance even of things it would be unpleasant to put into words.
“Yes,” she answered. “I want to talk to you about something I have decided to do. I think I must write to father and ask him to come to us.”
Rosalie turned white, but though her lips parted as if she were going to speak, she said nothing.
“Do not be frightened,” Betty said. “I believe it is the only thing to do.”
“I know! I know!”
Betty went on, holding the hand a little closer. “When I came here you were too weak physically to be able to face even the thought of a struggle. I saw that. I was afraid it must come in the end, but I knew that at that time you could not bear it. It would have killed you and might have killed mother, if I had not waited; and until you were stronger, I knew I must wait and reason coolly about you—about everything.”
“I used to guess—sometimes,” said Lady Anstruthers.