Celia hated herself for her burning cheeks as she bowed gravely. One hand held her work big, the other was on Belle's shoulder; and if, us for a fleeting instant she thought, Allan was about to hold out his hand, he changed his mind. His manner was calmly, unconcernedly polite as he spoke her name.
"Uncle Allan, what are you doing here?" called Rosalind.
Under the chorus of greetings and explanations Celia slipped away. Her thoughts were in a tumult as she hurried across the grounds to her own home.
Her mother was on the porch with a caller, and Celia took her seat there and went on with her sewing. The visitor remarked on her improved color, and Mrs. Fair looked at her daughter in some perplexity, Celia had been so pale of late.
All the evening she worked with feverish energy, writing labels for fruit jars and pasting them on, until no shadow of an excuse remained for not going to bed.
When at length she went to her room, it was to sit at the open window gazing blankly out into the darkness. She had been telling herself fiercely how silly and weak she was, but she had not succeeded in conquering her unhappiness. Now she resisted no longer.
She had not met Allan Whittredge face to face before for six years, although since his father's death he had been frequently in Friendship. She had known it must happen sometime, and had schooled herself to think it would mean nothing to her, but instead it had brought back a host of vain regrets.
She had been happier of late. Association with those light-hearted children had brought back something of her old hopefulness. That a chance meeting with Allan Whittredge could change all this, humiliated her.
"You haven't any pride, Celia Fair. It was your own doing."
"I had to do it; it was forced on me."