"But, I don't understand," Martha corrected her. "I thought—that is to say, I somehow or other, got the idea the two of youse was goin' to get along better, after this. I can't think how things could 'a' got to this pass when, the last I heard, everything looked so promisin'."
Katherine took her up quickly. "I don't know what you mean by promising. The day Mrs. Ronald was taken sick, I told grandmother about—about—what I'd done. You know—the pocket—with the letters. And she treated me like a dog. Oh, she was cruel. Sent me away, out of her sight, as if I'd been something hateful to her—which I am. She hasn't spoken to me since, until last night, except to give some order. I don't know how you can say you thought things 'looked promising.'"
Martha measured out two heaping tablespoonfuls of freshly-ground coffee into the percolator, and set it on the stove.
"I saw your gran'ma yesterday, Miss Katherine," she explained. "Her an' me had a long talk, an', from what she dropped, I got the impression she meant to turn over a new leaf two-wards you, if you'd give her the chance."
"Did she say she meant to?"
"No, not eggsackly 'say.' But——"
"Well, then, I guess you were mistaken. Or, perhaps she meant to try to do better by me, and, when the time came, she just couldn't, that's all. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. But no matter what she meant, no matter what I did, the end of it was, we had a terrible time and—I've come away for—good."
After an interval, during which Martha had quietly relieved Katherine of the bag she clutched, she set before her a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee.
Katherine shook her head. "I couldn't touch it. I'm not hungry."
"Drink it down, hungry or not!" commanded Martha authoritatively.