"My kindness!" Pen's heart cried. "Good-by," she said aloud, without a suspicion of a shake or a tremor. "Father is in the dining-room."
"Please say good-night to him for me," he said hurriedly ... "Good-by." He held out his hand.
"Good-by," said Pen, letting her cold fingers lie within his for a moment without any response to his pressure.
He went slowly across the front porch and stepped down. She closed the door. She stood there, her arms hanging. Her thoughts were like a dialogue back and forth within her.
"He didn't want to go. Why did you send him? .... But what did he want to stay for? Just a summer night's flirtation. That would have finished me. It's better this way ... Maybe he meant it ... No! That sort of happiness is not for me! Might as well get used to it soon as late! ... I'm not going to run upstairs and cry, either! There are the chickens to fasten up, the yeast to make and the milk to set out!" Her arms went up above her head and fell again. "Oh God! but life is dreary!"
From the dining-room her father called her in a strange, agitated voice that sent the blood flying from her heart:
"Pen! Pen! Come here, quickly!"
CHAPTER II
THE STORY IN THE SUN-PAPER
When Pen ran into the dining-room she found the little man seated at the table, his reading glasses on his nose and the newspaper spread before him. The face that he raised to her was pale and moist with excitement; his hands gripping the edge of the paper made it rattle with their trembling. Nevertheless in her first glance Pen was assured that no disaster threatened their house. There was even a sort of pleasure mixed with his horror. Her first reaction was to chagrin at having been frightened for nothing.