“Is it all over?” she asked, choking back a sob.
“Yes.” Eleanor lifted her black crêpe veil, and, pulling out the hatpins, removed her hat and handed it to Annette, who had followed her into the room. “Take my coat, too, Annette,” she directed, “then you need not wait.” As the servant left the room she pulled a low rocking-chair up to the couch on which Cynthia was lying, and placed her hand gently on the weeping girl’s shoulder. “Are you feeling better, dear?”
“A little better.” Cynthia wiped her eyes with a dry handkerchief which Annette had placed on her couch some moments before. “Oh, Eleanor, I am so bitterly ashamed of the scene I made downstairs.”
“You need not be.” Eleanor stroked the curly, fair hair back from Cynthia’s hot forehead with loving fingers. “It was a very painful scene, and Dr. Wallace’s tribute to Senator Carew, while beautiful, was harrowing. I am not surprised you fainted, dear.”
“Aunt Charlotte didn’t, and she was so devoted to Uncle James.”
“Mrs. Winthrop had not been through your terrible experiences of Monday night. Consequently, she had the strength to bear to-day’s ordeal with outward composure.”
“Was it very dreadful at the cemetery?”
“No, dear. The services at the grave were very simple, and, as the funeral was private, it attracted no morbid spectators.”
“Did anyone accompany you?”
“Just the handful of people who were here for the house services.”