“Graeme,” said he, as she sat down, “have you seen Janet?”
“Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago.”
“Poor Janet!” said her father, sighing heavily. No one was so particular as the minister in giving Janet her new title. It was always “Mistress Snow” or “the deacon’s wife” with him, and Graeme wondered to-night.
“Has anything happened?” asked she.
“Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Her mother is dead.”
The letter dropped from Graeme’s outstretched hand.
“Yes,” continued her father. “It was rather sudden, it seems—soon after she had decided to come out here. It will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. I must speak to her, poor Janet!”
Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. “Poor Janet!” well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow Graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. It was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. It did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend.
Mr Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, Graeme found when she entered her sister’s room. Marian was asleep, and coming close to Mrs Snow, who sat gazing into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm’s about her neck without a word. At first Graeme thought she was weeping. She was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, “You see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans.”
“Oh, Janet! There’s nothing in all the world that we can trust in.”