“There's many a hope that's doomed to disappointment,” said Aunt Rachel.
“So there is,” said Jack. “I was hoping mother would have apple-pudding for dinner to-day, but she didn't.”
The next day passed, and still no tidings of Ida. There was a cloud of anxiety, even upon Mr. Crump's usually placid face, and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal.
At night, after Rachel and Jack had both retired, he said, anxiously, “What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged absence, Mary?”
“I don't know,” said Mrs. Crump, seriously. “It seems to me, if her mother wanted to keep her longer than the time she at first proposed, it would be no more than right that she should write us a line. She must know that we would feel anxious.”
“Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of nothing else.”
“It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, I shall be seriously troubled.”
“Suppose she should never come back,” said the cooper, sadly.
“Oh, husband, don't think of such a thing,” said his wife, distressed.
“We must contemplate it as a possibility,” returned Timothy, gravely, “though not, I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an undoubted right to her; a better right than any we can urge.”