“No, no,” said Anne. “Something far more—I mean just a little matter connected with ourselves—I should say myself, rather, for neither Mrs. Ross nor Lewis know my errand, Mrs. Catherine—”
“Child, speak out,” exhorted her friend.
“You will think it very foolish,” said Anne, a sickly ray of hope breaking upon her as the time of certain knowledge drew so near, “I only wanted to ask you about Miss Aytoun’s family. I mean—Miss Aytoun—Alice—is her father alive?”
Mrs. Catherine regarded her for a considerable time in silence. Anne felt the long, firm look a death knell to her last hope, and returned it with a strange, callous steadiness, such as comes occasionally in the extremity of trial, imparting to the sufferer a fictitious strength.
“Her father is not alive. Wherefore do you ask me, child?”
The unnatural flicker of hope rose again.
“Where did he die, and how? I beseech you to tell me, Mrs. Catherine!”
“Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, gravely; “for what purpose do you seek to know? Wherefore do you question me so?”
“Where did he die, and when, and how?” repeated Anne.—”Answer me, Mrs. Catherine—do not hesitate—I am prepared.”
Mrs. Catherine paused long before she answered.