Olive moved a little uneasily. She felt uncomfortable when Jessica spoke of her father, because, having lost a mother herself, she understood what bereavement meant, but to lose both parents, as the other girl had done, to have absolutely no nearer living relative than Cousin Anne, related to Jessica through her mother’s mother as she was to Olive through her father’s father; that was terrible, indeed!
Therefore out of her fidgetings Olive evolved a remark which led away from the glorious window and stained glass in general.
“Do you know, I think that it was just too awfully good of you to spend all day yesterday sewing upon that white frock for little ’Becca, the dumb child,” she said with girlish gush.
“Oh! that was nothing; I enjoyed doing it. Cousin Anne deserves more than half the praise; ’twas she who bought the material; I—I didn’t have the money!”
Jessica spoke rather absent-mindedly, her gaze still wavering between the ruby window-nook and Olive.
“What!” breathed the latter. “Oh, you poor dear! Jessica, Father never thought of it, I’m sure, but I’m going to drop a hint to him, this very day, that he might make you a monthly allowance for pocket-money, now that you’ve come to live with us for a year or two, just as he does with Sybil and me. Oh-h! you wouldn’t like it, eh?” in crestfallen echo.
“Olive!” The Morning-Glory’s arms fell limply to her sides. Her skin, naturally clear and colorless as a pure white specimen of her name-flower, looked wan in the gold and crimson shafts of light streaming from the stained window. “Oh-h! Olive, I wouldn’t have you do that, hint anything—not for the world. Oh, don’t you think I feel it enough—that I——”
The gusty words splashed through the first drops of a tear-fall so sudden that it seemed as if the rainbowed colors had begun to drip.
A wet and crumpled-up Morning-Glory, all draggled upon its vine of girlish courage, dropped into a library chair, turning a streaming face to hide against the leather chair-back.
“Oh, honey, I never—meant——” came brokenly from Olive.