“To-morrow, I won’t be here. No, not till next Friday.”
“But I’ve got to go to-morrow to Miss Gentry and she can read it.”
“Oh!” said Jinny.
“Yes, Flynt wants to have my bonnet cleaned—vanity and waste, I call it.”
“But won’t that tire you—such a long walk? Why can’t I take the bonnet to-night? I’ll be passing her house.”
“We haven’t finished talking it over yet, Flynt and me,” parried Martha. “I might be having a new bonnet, you see, dearie.”
“Well, of course, it’s just as you wish. But suppose it rains to-morrow.”
“Rains?” repeated Martha, feeling—she knew not why—like an animal at bay. Then she drew a great breath of relief. Footsteps and voices were borne towards them. “Caleb!” she cried joyfully, “Will’s in London—he’s coming to see his old mother.”
“Good buoy-oy!” cried Caleb jovially. It was only what he had expected the letter would say, but at heart he shrank from the change—he had finally equated himself to the dual solitude, and the home-coming prodigal loomed as menacing as Cousin Caroline.
“Good boy?” echoed Martha. “I should think he is—never cared for girls. And still unmarried.”