"I mean—I—I—that just slipped out accidental. I was so s'prised at wondering what we'd do with a broken-legged woman hopping around here."
"But she won't be hopping around here," Tabitha grimly told her. "She must stay flat on her back in bed for three weeks, and then it will be days and days before she can get around without a crutch."
"Then—who—will housekeep—for us?" gasped Susie. "I reckon it is up to you to stay a while longer. Mrs. Goodale's grand-baby's got the fever and she is going to stay in Carson City until he's well. He is the only grandbaby she's got."
"How did you hear that?" demanded Tabitha, her heart sinking within her at Susie's words.
"Don't we know the Goodales well? She has only one girl, and that girl has only one baby."
"Oh, I didn't mean that! Where did you hear that the baby was sick?"
"Mr. Porter told us at the station. He has just got home from Carson City, and he saw Mrs. Goodale there. Why don't you read mamma's letter? You hain't looked at it yet."
Tabitha had completely forgotten the second envelope, and now hurriedly drew out the written page and scanned the blurred, uneven lines. Then without a word of explanation, she slipped the paper back into its envelope, and dropped it into her pocket, saying only, "Let the children have their dinner now. Everything is ready."
But all through the meal she was unusually preoccupied, puzzling, pondering, struggling, longing to be alone with herself, and yet held to her post by her sense of duty. At last, however, the hungry appetites were satisfied, the chattering children had gone back to their play, the dishes were washed and piled away in the cupboard, and Tabitha slipped away to the little room which she shared with Gloriana and Janie, knowing that no one would molest her here as long as the lame girl stood guard at the door.
Once alone, she spread the two letters out on the bed before her and read and re-read them until she knew both word for word.