"Nobody but the coachman and the carriage," returned Madame, dryly. "I'm not in the habit of being asked whether or not I have made proper provision for my guests."
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Francesca. I would have known, of course, if I had stopped to think."
"How is your father?" she put in, abruptly.
"All right, I guess. He's making a garden and the whole front yard is torn up as though sewer pipes were about to be put in."
Madame's heart softened with pity, for she knew that only loneliness would have set the Colonel to gardening. "I must go over and see it," she said, in a different tone. "My valuable advice hasn't been asked, but I think I could help a little."
"Undoubtedly. Your own garden is one of the loveliest I have ever seen.
Isn't that the train?"
"I think so. If Isabel comes, I believe I'll leave you to entertain her while I drive over to inspect the new garden."
She was oppressed, as never before, by the necessity of speech, and, of all those around her, Colonel Kent was the only one to whom it would be possible for her to say a word. She did not stop to consider what she could accomplish by it, for in her heart, she knew that she was helpless—also that a great deal of the trouble in the world has not been caused by silence.
Allison drummed on the arm of his chair until he heard the rumble of wheels, then went to the window. "It's Isabel," he announced, joyously. "I'll go down and help her out—she may have parcels."
Presently they came in together, laughing. Isabel's face was flushed and Allison was heavily laden with packages, both small and large. "I feel like Santa Claus," he cried, gaily, to Madame, as she passed them on the way out.