“It has made her grow old; that’s all the difference I perceive,” returned Mrs. Livingstone, satisfied that she’d said the thing which she knew would most annoy herself.
“How old are you, dear?” asked Mrs. Graham, leaning across the table.
“Eighteen,” was ’Lena’s answer, to which Mrs. Graham replied, “I thought so. Three years younger than Carrie, I believe.”
“Two, only two,” interrupted Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie exclaimed, “Horrors! How old do you take me to be?”
Adroitly changing the conversation, Mrs. Graham made no reply, and soon after they rose from the table. Scarcely had they returned to the parlor, when John Jr. was announced. “He had,” he said, “got his grandmother to sleep and put her to bed, and now he had come to pay his respects to Miss Graham!”
Catching her in his arms, he exclaimed, “Little girl! I’m as much delighted with your good fortune as I should be had it happened to myself. But where is Bellmont?” he continued, looking about the room.
Mr. Graham replied that he was not there.
“Not here?” repeated John Jr. “What have you done with him, ’Lena?”
Lifting her eyes, full of tears, to her cousin’s face, ’Lena said, softly, “Please don’t talk about it now.”
“There’s something wrong,” thought John Jr. “I’ll bet I’ll have to shoot that dog yet.”