“It is us—it is we, Fanny and Mary, cousin Margaret,” answered the twins, “come to call you. It is such a fine morning, you can’t think. Papa does not believe we shall have a drop of rain to-day. The baker’s boy has just carried the rolls,—such a basket-full!—to Mrs Rowland’s: so you must get up. Mamma is getting up already.”
The sisters were vexed to have been thrown into a terror for nothing; but it was a great relief to find Mr Grey prophesying fine weather for the excursion. Nothing could have happened to cast a doubt over it. Margaret, too, now began to think that the mystery might turn out a trifle; and she threw up the sash, to let in the fresh air, with a gaiety of spirits she had little expected to feel.
Another tap at the door. It was Morris, with the news that it was a fine morning, that the whole house was astir, and that she had no further news to tell.
Another tap before they were half-dressed. It was Mrs Grey, with a face quite as sorrowful as on the preceding evening, and the peculiar nervous expression about the mouth—which served her instead of tears.
“Have you done with Morris yet, my dears?”
“Morris, you may go,” said Hester, steadily.
Mrs Grey gazed at her with a mournful inquisitiveness, while she spoke; and kept her eyes fixed on Hester throughout, though what she said seemed addressed to both sisters.
“There is something the matter, Mrs Grey,” continued Hester, calmly. “Say what it is. You had better have told us last night.”
“I thought it best not to break your sleep, my dears. We always think bad news is best told in the morning.”
“Tell us,” said Margaret. Hester quietly seated herself on the bed.