Betty took me home and I ran up the stairs. I was like a child hastening to impart joyful tidings. Lizzie was in her kitchen occupied over household affairs. A glass lamp turned too high, stood on a shelf, the delicate skein of smoke rising from its chimney, painting a dusky circle on the ceiling. The gas, also too high, rushed from its burner in a torn flame that leaped and hissed like a live thing caught and in pain. Lizzie, being well enough to attend to her own needs, the place was once more in chaos. I turned down the lamp and the gas, shut off the sink faucet, which was noisily dribbling, and lifting a pie from the one wooden chair, put it on the ice-box and sat down to impart my news.
She listened without interruption, leaning against the wash-tub.
“Well?” I said, as she didn’t speak. My voice was sharp, her silence got on my nerves.
“To go to Europe and study,” she said dreamily, “that’s been the dream of my life.”
“Well, your dream’s come true, Lizzie!” I jumped up ready to take her in my arms and hug her. “You can go as soon as your trunk’s packed.”
She shook her head.
“It’s too late now.”
“Too late!” I fell back from her, unbelieving, aghast—“What do you mean?”
Her face bore an expression of sad renouncement.
“The dream’s over, I’m awake.”