The voice which asked this question was sad and low, like the voices of those who talk of their dead; and the voice which answered was low, too, in its tones.
“Yes, she took to rocking and singing night as well as day, and that, you know, makes your father nervous sooner than anything else.”
“Did she want to go?”
“No; she begged to stay at first, but went quietly enough at the last.”
“Did she ever mention me, auntie? Do you think she missed me and wanted me?”
“She spoke of you once. She said, ‘If Allie was here, she wouldn’t let me go.’”
“O, poor, poor darling! O, auntie, it’s terrible, isn’t it?”
Alice was sobbing now, and amid her sobs she asked:
“Was father gentle with her, and kind?”
“Yes, gentler, more patient than I have known him for years. It almost seemed as if something must have happened to him while he was gone, for he was very quiet and thoughtful when he came home, and did not order nearly as many brandy slings, though he smoked all the time.”