“You are not in your usual spirits, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas.
“No,” she answered, quietly, “I am not.”
This state of affairs continued for four days, and then one morning, sitting at her sewing in the breakfast-room, she was startled almost beyond self-control by a servant's announcement that a visitor had arrived.
“One of your sisters, ma'am,” said the parlor-maid. “Not the youngest, I think.”
She was in the room in two seconds, and flew to Aimée, trembling all over with excitement.
“Not a letter!” she cried, hysterically. “It is n't a letter,—it can't be!” And she put her hand to her side and fairly panted.
The poor little wise one confronted her with something like fear. She could not bear to tell her the ill news she had come to break.
“Dolly, dear!” she said, “please sit down; and—please don't look at me so. It isn't good news. I must tell you the truth; it is bad news, cruel news. Oh, don't look so!”
They were standing near the sofa, and Dolly gave one little moan, and sank down beside it.
“Cruel news!” she cried, throwing up her hand. “Yes, I might have known that,—I might have known that it would be cruel, if it was news at all Every one is cruel,—the whole world is cruel; even Grif,—even Grif!”