“You won’t be too harsh with him, Father? You won’t allow him to suffer too much? If he don’t come back soon, you’ll go and find him, won’t you,—if he don’t come back by the end of next week? He isn’t strong, you know, and he’s so sensitive. And I can’t think he intended to do anything wrong; I can’t think it! I will not believe it!”
They were passing through the upper hall to the head of the staircase. When they came near to the dark closet that opened on the landing, they were startled by the strange noise that proceeded from behind the door,—a noise as of some one sobbing.
Mr. Gaston threw open the closet door and peered into the darkness, while his wife stood behind him, half-frightened, looking over his shoulder.
“Why!” he exclaimed, when his eyes had adapted themselves to the inner gloom, “it’s Jennie!”
“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, in another fright.
“Jennie,” said Mr. Gaston, sternly, “come right out. What does this mean?”
Poor Jennie, her eyes red with weeping and with anguish written all over her tear-marked face, rose from her seat on an old chest, and came into the light of the hall.
She began to sob again as though her heart would break.
“What does this mean?” repeated her father.