"Martha," said Emily, with some sternness, "stop that; stop crying. Get up. You must get ready for dinner."
Martha sat up, huddled together on the edge of the bed. She spoke very humbly.
"I don't want any supper, mammie. Honestly, I don't feel like eating. I'm tired. I want to go to my room. I'd rather go to bed."
Emily stood looking at her wiping her eyes. Poor Lamb! Poor tender-hearted child! She did look wretched. Perhaps she ought to be humored—just for this once.
"All right. We'll have our supper up here. We'll have a regular spread."
"Honestly, I don't want anything to eat."
"Well, you've got to eat something. That's all there is to it."
"All right, mammie."
They went together to look at Martha's room, two floors above Emily's. Martha was repressing sobs, now, like a threatened child. Emily asked about the college, to compose her. Had she done good work this term? But she said meekly she didn't think she had done very well, not lately, anyway, when she had been so sort of tired. Emily was eager to question her, but thought it better to wait. She offered to help unpack the suitcase, but Martha was jealous of it, as if it was filled with Christmas presents.
Emily went back to her room, to wait for the supper she had ordered. She sang to herself. "O come, all ye faithful," she hummed, "joyful and triumphant." She was infinitely relieved and lifted up. She had an impulse to telegraph Bob that everything was right again. No, but as soon as supper was over, she would write him a long letter. She would explain the child's repentance, her sweet, humble coming back. She was so happy that, when Martha came in, she just naturally took her in her arms and kissed her.