“This afternoon the dresses came home, and they do look beautifully, while every one has belt, and gloves, and ribbons, and sashes, and laces or muslins to match—fashionable people are so particular about these things. I have tried them on, and except that I think them too tight, they fit admirably, and do give me a different air from what Miss Hazelton’s did. But I really believe I like the old ones best, because you helped to make them; and when Wilford said I must send them home, I went where he could not see me and cried, because—well, I hardly know why I cried, unless I feared you might feel badly. Dearest Helen, don’t, will you? I love you just as much, and shall remember you the same as if I wore the dresses. Dearest sister, I can fancy the look that will come on your face, and I wish I could be present to kiss it away. Imagine me there, will you? with my arms around your neck, and tell mother not to mind. Tell her I never loved her so well as now, and that when I come home from Europe I shall bring her ever so many things. There is a new black silk for her in the trunk, and one for each of the aunties, while for you there is a lovely brown, which Wilford said was just your style, telling me to select as nice a silk as I pleased, and this he did, I think, because he guessed I had been crying. He asked what made my eyes so red, and when I would not tell him he took me with him to the silk store and bade me get what I liked. Oh, he is the dearest, kindest husband, and I love him all the more because I am the least bit afraid of him.
“And now I must stop, for Wilford says so. Dear Helen, dear all of you, I can’t help crying as I say good-bye. Remember little Katy, and if she ever did anything bad, don’t lay it up against her. Kiss Morris and Uncle Ephraim, and say how much I love them. Darling sister, darling mother, good-bye.”
This was Katy’s letter, and it brought a gush of tears from the four women remembered so lovingly in it, the mother and the aunts stealing away to weep in secret, without ever stopping to look at the new dresses sent to them by Wilford Cameron. They were very soft, very handsome, especially Helen’s rich golden brown, and as she looked at it she felt a thrill of satisfaction in knowing it was hers, but this quickly passed as she took out one by one the garments she had folded with so much care, wondering when Katy would wear each one and where she would be.
“She will never wear them, never—they are not fine enough for her now!” she exclaimed, and as she just then came upon the little plaid, she laid her head upon the trunk lid, while her tears dropped like rain in among the discarded articles condemned by Wilford Cameron.
It seemed to her like Katy’s grave, and she was sobbing bitterly, when a step sounded outside the window, and a voice called her name. It was Morris, and lifting up her head Helen said passionately,
“Oh, Morris, look! he has sent back all Katy’s clothes, which you bought and I worked so hard to make. They were not good enough for his wife to wear, and so he insulted us. Oh, Katy, I never fully realized till now how wholly she is lost to us!”
“Helen, Helen,” Morris kept saying, trying to stop her, for close behind him was Mark Ray, who heard her distinctly, and glancing in, saw her kneeling before the trunk, her pale face stained with tears, and her dark eyes shining with excitement.
Mark Ray understood it at once, feeling indignant at Wilford for thus unnecessarily wounding the sensitive girl, whose expression, as she sat there upon the floor, with her face upturned to Morris, haunted him for months. Mark was sorry for her—so sorry that his first impulse was to go quietly away, and so spare her the mortification of knowing that he had witnessed that little scene; but it was now too late. As she finished speaking her eye fell on him, and coloring scarlet she struggled to her feet, and covering her face with her hands wept still more violently. Mark was in a dilemma, and whispered softly to Morris, “I think I will leave. You can tell her all I had to say;” but Helen heard him, and mastering her agitation, she said to him,
“Please, Mr. Ray, don’t go—not yet at least, not till I have asked you of Katy. Did you see her off? Has she gone?”
Thus importuned Mark Ray came in, and sitting down where his boot almost touched the new brown silk, he very politely began to answer her rapid questions, putting her entirely at her ease by his pleasant, affable manner, and making her forget the littered appearance of the room, as she listened to his praises of her sister, who, he said, seemed so very happy, and attracted universal admiration wherever she went. No allusion whatever was made to the trunk during the time of Mark’s stay, which was not long. If he took the next train to New York, he had but an hour more to spend, and feeling that Helen would rather he should spend it at Linwood he soon arose to go. Offering his hand to Helen, there passed from his eyes into hers a look which had over her a strangely quieting influence, and prepared her for a remark which otherwise might have seemed out of place.