Wardwell seeing the quick leap of anguish in her eyes hurried to say lightly:
"Nothing at all, as per usual. Only, you see, when she went away, you were a little girl with a little curl. And now—she can't understand it—the little girl is a—woman."
Augusta put her hand softly into Wardwell's palm and said gently, soberly:
"Your woman."
Wardwell started as though a hot iron had touched him. The homely expression, in the way she had put it, and meant it, the gentle dignity of her complete surrender, went to his heart, and flashed up into his brain the revelation of the heart holiness that this little girl had brought today to the ceremony which, after all, had meant so little to him.
He closed his hand blindly over the little hand that lay in his, and bowed his head.
A slight rustling noise came from the hall, and Augusta leaping from her chair ran hastily from the room and down the hall.
She was in time to look through the railing of the stairs and see her mother disappearing down the stairs. She saw her mother look back in a frightened, furtive way; saw that she recognized her; and then saw that she turned to flee from her.
Augusta put her arm out blindly to the wall and leaned against it.
"Go, Jimmie, quick," she moaned. "She'd never come back for me. She'd only run faster and farther. She's running away—Running away from me."