The woman started angrily. It was one of the things about the girl that vexed her, this stealing softly by and giving no warning that she was near. Her step-mother named it "slyness."
In a moment more the library door opened and her name was called.
She went into the hall with an attitude that said plainly she felt insulted by the way things were going.
"Where is Jemima?" asked her husband, and she saw by his face that something unusual had happened. His look was that he had worn the day he came home from seeing his dead wife. Jemima indeed! Why did he not consult her first? She bustled up to the door.
"Jemima has gone to her room," she said decidedly. "By this time she has retired. It would be better not to disturb her. She has been very nervous and excited all day."
To the two guests inside the library, the protest sounded like loving solicitation. Perhaps the woman meant it should. She had been wont to show her interest thus before Dawn's father, and seldom let him know her true feeling toward the girl.
Mr. Van Rensselaer's severe brow did not relax. He was used to having life thicken around him in hard experiences, both for himself and for those who were dependent upon him.
"It will be necessary for her to know to-night, I think, Maria," he said. "Sit down and I will give you the facts. It may be best for you to tell her, after all."
With the injured importance of one who feels she should have been told at the first, Mrs. Van Rensselaer sat down upon the extreme edge of a stiff chair, grudgingly, not to seem too eager to be told.
"Maria, Mr. Winthrop has kindly come to inform us of a most unfortunate state of things relating to the young man who was to have married Jemima to-morrow morning."