Before then I think we had both come to have a strong feeling that something was going to happen. I, of course, had some reason for this in what mamma had said to me, though I had forgotten about it a good deal, till this visit to Fernley brought back the idea of something unusual. For it was very seldom that we were left by ourselves.
We did not mind it much. After all, it was only two nights and one whole day, and that a Sunday, when my brother was at home, so we stood at the door cheerfully enough, looking at our father and mother driving off in the clumsy, dingy old four-wheeler—though that is a modern word—which was the best kind of cab known at Mexington.
But when they were fairly off Haddie turned to me, and I saw that he was very grave. I was rather surprised.
"Why, Haddie," I said, "do you mind so much? They'll be back on Monday."
"No, of course I don't mind that," he said. "But I wonder why mamma looks so—so awfully trying-not-to-cry, you know."
"Oh," I said, "I don't think she's quite well. And she hates leaving us."
"No," said my brother, "there's something more."
And when he said that, I remembered the feeling I had had myself. I felt rather cross with Haddie; I wanted to forget it quite.
"You needn't try to frighten me like that," I said. "I meant to be quite happy while they were away—to please mamma, you know, by telling her so when she comes back."
Then Haddie, who really was a very good-natured, kind boy, looked sorry.