“I suppose you have not seen your sister Helen? You know I called there,” Mark said to Katy; but before she could reply, a pair of black eyes shot a keen glance at luckless Mark, and Juno’s sharp voice said quickly, “I did not know you had the honor of Miss Lennox’s acquaintance.”
Mark was in a dilemma. He had kept his call at Silverton to himself, as he did not care to be questioned about Katy’s family; and now, when it accidentally came out, he tried to make some evasive reply, pretending that he had spoken of it, and Juno had forgotten. But Juno knew better, and from that night dated a strong feeling of dislike for Helen Lennox, whom she affected to despise, even though she could be jealous of her. Wisely changing the conversation, Mark asked Katy to play, and as she seldom refused, she went at once to the piano, astonishing both Mrs. Cameron and her daughters with the brilliancy of her performance. Even Juno complimented her, saying she must have taken lessons very young.
“When I was ten,” Katy answered. “Cousin Morris gave me my first exercise himself. He plays sometimes.”
“Yes, I knew that,” Juno replied. “Does your sister play as well as you?”
Katy knew that Helen did not, and she answered frankly, “Morris thinks she does not. She is not as fond of it as I am.” Then feeling that she must in some way make amends for Helen, she added, “But she knows a great deal more than I do about books. Helen is very smart.”
There was a smile on every lip at this ingenuous remark, but only Mark and Bell liked Katy the better for it. Wilford did not care to have her talking of her friends, and he kept her at the piano, until she said her fingers were tired and begged leave to stop.
It was late ere Mark bade them good night; so late that Katy began to wonder if he would never go, yawning once so perceptibly that Wilford gave her a reproving glance, which sent the hot blood to her face and drove from her every feeling of drowsiness. Even after he had gone the family were in no haste to retire, but sat chatting with Wilford until the city clock struck twelve and Katy was nodding in her chair.
“Poor child, she is very tired,” Wilford said, apologetically, gently waking Katy, who begged them to excuse her, and followed her husband to her room, where she was free to ask him what she must ask before she could ever be quite as happy as she had been before.
Going up to the chair where Wilford was sitting before the fire, and standing partly behind him, she said timidly, “Will you answer me one thing truly?”
Alone with Katy, Wilford felt all his old tenderness returning, and drawing her into his lap he asked her what it was she wished to know.