"'Needn't worry!'" said Mildred Lorimer, lifting her hands and letting them fall into her lap.
"Honestly, Muzzie, you needn't. If you do, it's because you let yourself. You must know that I'll be safe with these people."
"Your bodily safety isn't all," her mother, driven from that corner, veered swiftly. "The thing itself is the worst. The idea of it—when I think—after all that was in the paper, and every one talking about it and pitying you—pitying you, Honor!"
Her daughter got up suddenly and crossed over to her mother. "Every one but you, Muzzie? Can't you manage to—pity me—a little? I think I could stand being pitied, just now." It was indeed a day for being mothered. There was a need which even the best and most understanding of stepfathers could not fill, and Mildred Lorimer, looking into her white face and her mourning eyes melted suddenly and allowed herself to be cuddled and somewhat comforted but the heights of comforting Honor she could not scale.
"I think," said the girl at length, "I'd like to go up to my room and rest for a little while, if you don't mind, Muzzie,—and Stepper."
"Right, T. S. You'll want to be fresh for to-morrow."
"Do, dear—and I'll have Kada bring you up some tea. Rest until dinner time, because Mrs. Van Meter's dining with us," she broke off as she saw the small quiver which passed over her daughter's face and defended herself. "I had to ask her, Honor. I couldn't—in common decency—avoid it. She's so devoted to you, and think what she's done for you, Honor!"
Honor sighed. "Very well. But will you make her promise not to let Carter know I am coming?"
"My dear, how could she? You'll be there yourself as soon as a letter."
"She might telegraph." She turned to her stepfather. "Will you make her promise, Stepper?"