The hot July days warmed the breast of the Mountain. Over in the corn-patch the stalks had spindled and the swelling ears were ready to tassel. By word or look Rose had given no sign--and her mother wondered. The days wore on; the routine of daily work and life went on; but the younger children's voices were subdued when they spoke lovingly and longingly of Chi, and Rose sang no longer when she kneaded bread. They were days of suspense and heart misery for them all.
Two weeks had passed since that evening when Mr. Blossom had read to them the fatal despatch. No word had come from anyone save Hazel, who wrote that her father and Uncle John had started at once for Cuba, and that she hoped to be with the Blossoms the third week in July, for by that time they would know the whole truth.
They had been making ready Hazel's little bedroom, for she was expected in a few days. Rose was tacking up a white muslin curtain at the small window, when she heard her father call:
"Rose, come here a minute."
"Yes, father."
She went out on the porch with the hammer in her hand. "What is it, Popsey dear?--Why, father, what--oh what--!"
With shaking hand her father held out a letter to her. Rose looked once--it was from Chi!
"I wish mother were here, daughter--but she'll be back soon. Let me know how it is with them all--." Mr. Blossom could say no more, for Malachi Graham was as near to him as a brother, and he was agonizing for his child. He went off to the barn, leaving Rose standing on the porch, staring as if fascinated at the superscription of the letter:
To Miss Rose Blossom,
Mill Settlement,