“Why, Rosanne Baker!” her hostess reiterated. Cecilia did not wear bloomers. She stood erect in petticoats. “I thought you went on one of the boats!”
“I didn't,” sobbed Rosanne. “When they were crowding us on I slipped among the lumber piles and hid. I've been hid all day, lying flat between boards—on top where they couldn't see me.”
“Suppose the lumber had been set on fire, too! And you haven't had anything to eat?”
“I don't want to eat. I'm only frightened to death at the wicked Gentiles burning the island. I couldn't stay there all night, so I got down and ran to your house.”
“Of course, you poor child! But, Rosanne, where's your husband?”
The trembling creature stiffened herself and looked at Cecilia out of the corners of her long eyes. “He's with Elizabeth Aiken.”
The only wife of one husband did not know how to take hold of this subject.
“But your father was there,” she suggested. “How could you leave your father and run the risk of never seeing him again?”
“I don't care if I never see him again. He said he was so discouraged he didn't care what became of any of us.”
Cecilia was going to plead the cause of domestic affection further, but she saw that four step-mothers could easily be given up. She turned helplessly to her husband who stood in the door.