She came forward with hands out.
Emily forgot to take the hands. “Did he say that, really, Alexina?”
“Yes; why shouldn’t he? Oh, Emily, it must be joy, or does it frighten you to know you’re so beautiful?”
She was letting her fingers touch, almost with awe, the curve of the other’s check.
Emily laughed, but the crimson on the cheek deepened.
“And your voice?” demanded Alexina. “I want to hear you sing. Did you get the place in the choir you wrote me about?”
“Miss Harriet got it for me; it was she who suggested it—that is, she got Mr. Blair to get it for me. It’s at your church, you know.”
“Uncle Austen? No. Did he, really?”
But the surprise in Alexina’s voice was unfair to her uncle. To help people to the helping of themselves was part of his creed. He looked upon it as a furthering of the general social economy, as indeed he had pointed out more than once to those he was thus assisting.
But Alexina had many things to ask. She pushed Emily into a chair.