“Who took ’em?” And then Jan-an did one of those quick, intelligent things that sometimes shamed sharper wits––she went to the hearth. “There ain’t been no fire,” she muttered. “He ain’t burned ’em. What did he take them for?”
This question steadied Mary-Clare. “I’m not sure, Jan-an, that any one has taken the letters. You know how careless I am. I may have put them somewhere else.”
“If yer have there’s no need fussing. I’ll find ’em. I kin find anything if yer give me time. I have ter get on the scent.”
Mary-Clare gave a nervous laugh.
“Just old letters,” she murmured, “but they meant, oh! they meant so much. Come,” she said suddenly, “come, I must dress and get breakfast.”
“I’ve et.” Jan-an was gathering the bedclothes from the floor. She selected the coverlid and brought it to Mary-Clare. “There, now,” she whispered, wrapping it about her, “you come along and get into bed downstairs till I make breakfast. You need looking after more than Noreen. God! what messes some folks can make by just living!”
Things were reduced to the commonplace in an hour.
The warmth of her bed, the sight of Noreen, the sound of Jan-an moving about, all contributed to the state of mind that made her panic almost laughable to Mary-Clare.
Things had happened too suddenly for her; events had become congested in an environment that was antagonistic to change. A change had undoubtedly come but it must be met bravely and faithfully.