“She has such a loving mother-heart,” said Ellis, “and she will blame herself, though I’m sure she has no reason.”
“What are you talking about?” asked little Nan, coming skipping back from an erratic excursion into one of the side paths. “Oh, Dora! did you get me that necklace?”
“Yes, little puss, I have it safe here in my bag.”
“Let me carry that; I did not notice that you had it,” Ellis said, taking the satchel.
He was invariably as politely attentive to his mother and sisters as to any other ladies.
The parents were moving slowly forward, the mother having recovered her accustomed calm, quiet manner, and the young people had fallen slightly into the rear. Another moment, and they were all passing up the broad marble steps leading into Memorial Hall.
They had hardly disappeared within the portal, when Espy and Ethel might have been seen traversing the avenue in the same direction.
Indifferent as to which part of the building received their first attention, the foremost party turned, as it were by a mere chance, into that appropriated to the exhibition of native talent. They moved slowly along, the parents still in advance, pausing as others were doing, now here, now there, as one painting or another drew their attention.
Suddenly the lady grasped her husband’s arm, a low, half-stifled cry escaping her lips. Was it joy? Was it anguish? It seemed a mingling of both.