“I am sorry,” said Pauline; “tell your mother I’m sorry, please. She was so kind to me.”
“Thank you,” Armstrong said, heartily; “I will.” And somehow before he went they shook hands.
Pauline gave the message, but she felt so guilty because of this last courtesy that she gave it without reproach, even though her only good brush disclosed a pitiful crack.
“Well, you know why I did it,” said Henriette, coolly; “and does the man suppose his playing isn’t obnoxious any hour of the day as well as night? But let us hope they will be quiet awhile. Paula, have you any money? We ought to go over those numbers for the concert beforehand, and we must get Verdi’s Requiem. Mysie has some, but she wants it to buy curtains.”
“I’m sorry, sister Etty, but I haven’t a cent.”
“Then the curtains will have to wait, Mysie,” said Henriette, cheerfully, “for we must have the music to-morrow.”
Mysie threw a deprecating glance at Pauline. “There was a bargain in chintzes,” she began, feebly, “but of course, sister, if Paula doesn’t mind—”
“I don’t mind, Mysie,” said Pauline.
Why should she make Mysie unhappy and Henriette cross for a pair of cheap curtains? The day was beautiful, and she attended church. She was surprised, looking round at the choir, to discover young Armstrong in the seat behind her. She did not know that he attended that church. But surely there was no harm in a neighbor’s walking home with Mysie and her. How well and modestly he talked, and how gentle and deferential he was to Mysie! Mysie sighed when he parted from them, a little way from the house.