Then Sylvia went out of the room with a little hysterical twitter like a scared bird, and the two men were left alone. Silence came over them again. Both men looked moodily at nothing. Finally Henry spoke.
“One of the worst features of any terrible thing like this is that burdens innumerable are either heaped upon the shoulders of the innocent, or they assume them. There's my poor wife actually trying to make out that she is in some way to blame.”
“Women are a queer lot,” said Horace, in a miserable tone.
Then the door opened suddenly, and Sylvia's think, excited face appeared.
“You don't suppose they'll send them to prison?” she said.
“They'll both be acquitted,” said Horace. “Don't worry, Mrs. Whitman.”
“I've got to worry. How can I help worrying? Even if poor Lucinda is acquitted, lots of folks will always believe it, and her boarders will drop away, and as for Hannah Simmons, I shouldn't be a mite surprised if it broke her match off.”
“It's a dreadful thing,” said Henry; “but don't you fret too much over it, Sylvia. Maybe she killed herself, and if they think that Lucinda won't have any trouble afterwards.”
“I think some have that opinion now,” said Horace.
Sylvia sniffed. “A woman don't kill herself as long as she's got spirit enough to fix herself up,” she said. “I saw her only yesterday in a brand-new dress, and her hair was crimped tight enough to last a week, and her cheeks—”