“I was busy,” said Harlan, in extenuation. “Will you come in?” She was evidently a friend of Dorothy’s, and, as such, demanded proper consideration.
The invitation was needless, however, for even as he spoke, she brushed past him, and went into the parlour. “I’m so tired,” she breathed. “I walked up that long hill.”
“You shouldn’t have done it,” returned Harlan, standing first on one foot and then on the other. “Couldn’t you find the stage?”
“I didn’t look for it. I never had any ambition to go on the stage,” she concluded, with a faint smile. “Where is Uncle Ebeneezer?”
“No friend of Dorothy’s,” thought Harlan, shifting to the other foot. “Uncle Ebeneezer,” he said, clearing his throat, “is at peace.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the girl, sinking into one of the haircloth chairs. “Where is Uncle Ebeneezer?”
“Uncle Ebeneezer is dead,” explained Harlan, somewhat tartly. Then, as he remembered the utter ruin of his work, he added, viciously, “never having known him intimately, I can’t say just where he is.”
She leaned back in her chair, her face as white as death. Harlan thought she had fainted, when she relieved his mind by bursting into tears. He was more familiar with salt water, but, none the less, the situation was awkward.
There were no signs of Dorothy, so Harlan, in an effort to be consoling, took the visitor’s cold hands in his. “Don’t,” he said, kindly; “cheer up. You are among friends.”
“I have no friends,” she answered, between sobs. “I lost the last when my dear mother died. She made me promise, during her last illness, that if anything happened to her, I would come to Uncle Ebeneezer. She said she had never imposed upon him and that he would gladly take care of me, for her sake. I was ill a long, long time, but as soon as I was able to, I came, and now—and now——”