Emmy Lou, coming in through the kitchen from play, a week later, met Uncle Charlie in the hall just arriving by the front door.
He neither spoke to her nor saw her as he overtook her on the lowest stair, but pushed by and hurried up.
Emmy Lou's heart swelled. It was not like Uncle Charlie. She clambered the curving flight after him. He had gone ahead into Aunt Cordelia's room and she, on her way there herself, trudged after.
What did it mean? Why did it frighten her? Aunt Katie, Aunt Louise, weeping? Uncle Charlie now beside the fireplace, bowed against its shelf? This bit of yellow paper at his feet on the floor?
Aunt Cordelia, weeping herself, would know. "What is it?" faltered Emmy Lou.
Aunt Cordelia knew and held out her arms to the call. No evasions now; truth for Emmy Lou.
"Mamma will not be back. She has gone ahead to Heaven. Come to Aunt Cordelia and let her comfort you, precious baby."
But Emmy Lou, still in her coat and hat, did not come; she did not pause to dally. She hurried past the various hands outstretched to stay her, to her own little room adjoining.
Complete her papier-maché satchel was, even to its clamps and straps, sitting beside her bed ready, her satchel which would hold a gown, and other treasure such as pewter dishes could she stop for such now. She dragged at a drawer of her own bureau.