"Anything wrong, Phyl? You've been crying!" said Jessamy, turning from the glass with a sharp look at her cousin. "What ails Bab? She never has headaches."
"There's nothing very wrong, Jessamy; nothing we can't set right," said Phyllis. "It is a story too long to tell you now, but I'm going to tell you as soon as we can get off somewhere together. It is a solemn secret, mind, and you're not to tell a soul—not even auntie. Don't appear to see anything queer about Bab to-night, and to-morrow come with me into the park and we'll talk it out."
"Then it is about Bab?" said Jessamy, looking puzzled. "Bab, of all people! She was all right when I went away; I don't see how I can wait until to-morrow to hear the secret, Phyllis. It can't be very trifling, when you show no interest in getting our money back."
"It is just a horrid little snarl, Amy, but nothing worse; you and I will unravel it. Hush! I hear auntie, and Bab is moving about in her room. Let's put the kettle on; there's nothing like the kitchen for troubled minds! Don't you dare look thoughtful this evening, nor try to guess what I've on my mind by studying me, or Bab will see. I am going to tell you as soon as I can. Better change your dress, Jessamy; I'll whisk on my apron, and get the water boiling," Phyllis added in a louder tone, as her aunt came down the hall.
In spite of Phyllis's warning, Jessamy found her eyes wandering from her face to Bab's all through dinner. One she saw was clouded, discontented, very unlike its usually bright self; the other, grave, but patient and sweet: neither helped her to a solution of the mystery in the air.
There was no possibility of waiting for the morrow to hear Phyllis's story. Curiosity made it more than easy for Jessamy to keep awake until her mother and Bab were asleep, and, creeping to Phyllis's door, she soon satisfied herself that her cousin was as wakeful as she was. "Get on your wrapper and come into the kitchen, Phyl; I'm wild to hear what you have to tell me," she said through a crack in the door.
Phyllis opened it at once. "I'll come," she said. "Don't make a sound."
Jessamy went down the hall in the dark, and Phyllis followed her in a few moments, wrapped in her eiderdown wrapper, soundless knit slippers on her feet, and Truce in her arms, for the kitten was her bedfellow, and was so spoiled that he would have cried and aroused the household if he had wakened to find himself alone.
"Now," said Jessamy, carefully and noiselessly closing the door behind Phyllis, and taking the straight chair, having pulled the rocker forward for her cousin, "now, tell me." Phyllis seated herself, tucking her feet up on the round of the chair and pulling her wrapper down around them, for the floor was cold. Truce immediately took up the post under the tubs which he always assumed to look for the mice which never came.
"Well, Jessamy," Phyllis began, "it is not the sort of news you expect, no matter what you have guessed it to be. Babbie has fallen in love with Tom."