“Kindness,” said she, “is a strange word to use in connection with that scene, when I found myself forced to part with the only mother that I have known since my own mamma died.”
Mrs. Dunbar looked at her in silence, and there came over her face a strange, patient expression that at any other time would have excited Edith's sympathy and pity. Some reply seemed to rise to her lips, but if it was so, it was instantly checked; and after a moment's hesitation she said, in a low voice.
“It is cheerless in this room. If you will come with me I will take you where you can be more comfortable.”
Saying this, she led the way out, and Edith followed, feeling a little perplexed at Mrs. Dunbar's manner, and trying to understand how it was that she was so identified with Wiggins. She thought she could see an evident kindliness toward herself, but how that could coexist with the treatment which she had received at the gates was rather a puzzle.
Mrs. Dunbar led the way up to the second story, and along a corridor toward the right wing. Here she came to a room in the front of the house which looked out upon the park, and commanded an extensive view. There was a well-furnished bedroom off this room, to which Mrs. Dunbar at once led her.
“If we had only received notice that you were coming,” said she, “you would have met with a better reception.”
Edith said nothing, for once more the word “we” jarred unpleasantly upon her.
“Shall you have any objection to occupy this room for to-night?” asked Mrs. Dunbar.
“Thank you,” said Edith, “none whatever; but I should like very much to have my luggage. It was taken back to Dalton.”
“Taken back?”