“Annie, Annie, come here. Why, where are you going to-night?” she continued, in much surprise, as Annie looked in, hooded and shawled as for some expedition.
“Going to see Mrs. Simms. It is not far, you know,” was Annie’s answer, and the door closed after her in time to prevent her hearing Rose’s reply.
“It’s dark as pitch, and slippery too. Jimmie, do please see her to the gate, but don’t go in, for the widow is awful against Rebels!”
The next moment Jimmie was half way down the stairs, calling to Annie, who held the door-knob in her hand.
“Mrs. Graham, allow me to be your escort,—Rose is not willing you should go out alone.”
“Thank you, I am not at all afraid, and prefer going alone, as Mrs. Simms might not care to meet a stranger,” Annie replied, with an air of so much quiet dignity, that Jimmie knew there was no alternative for him save to return to his sister’s chamber, which he did, feeling far more crestfallen than he had supposed it possible for him to feel, just because a widow had refused his escort.
It was wholly owing to the taint of Rebeldom clinging to him, he knew, for he was not accustomed to having his attentions thus slighted by the ladies to whom they were offered, and all unconsciously the manner of reserve which Annie assumed toward him was punishing him for his sin quite as much as anything which had yet occurred, making him feel keenly that by his traitorous act he had, for a time at least, built a gulf between himself and those whose good opinion was worth the having.
“Why haven’t you gone?” Rose asked, as he came into the room. “She wouldn’t let you? I don’t believe you asked her just as you should. Dear, dear, it’s all going wrong between you two, and if Tom don’t act any better when he comes home, what shall I do?”
“Send Mrs. Graham away,” trembled on Jimmie’s lips, but knowing, from what he had seen, that so far as Rose was concerned, Annie’s tenure at the Mather mansion was stronger than his own, he wisely kept silent, and sitting down by the open grate, he went off into a fit of abstraction, mingled with sad regrets for the past and occasional thoughts of the little white-faced Annie, now essaying to comfort the Widow Simms, who had extorted from her the intelligence brought by Jimmie of her boy, and who, with her hard hands covering her face, was weeping bitterly, and sobbing amid her tears,
“My poor, poor boy! It’s the same to me now as if he was dead. I’ll never see him any more. Oh, Isaac, my darling!”