The doors stood open, as usual, for it was still warm weather, and the rest of the family were all scattered at their several occupations. Miss Cadwallader on the bed, asleep; Karen somewhere in her distant premises out of hearing; Elizabeth sat with her book in the little passage-way by the open front door, screened however by another open door from the keeping- room where Mrs. Landholm sat alone at her sewing. By and by came in Winifred, through the kitchen. She came in and stood by the fireplace silent.
"Well, dear," said the mother looking up from her work, — "did you find them?"
The child's answer was to spring to her side, throw her arms round her neck, and burst into convulsive tears.
"Winifred!" — said Mrs. Landholm, putting an arm round the trembling child, and dropping her work, — "what ails you, dear? — tell me."
The little girl only clung closer to her neck and shook in a passion of feeling, speechless; till the mother's tone became alarmed and imperative.
"It's nothing, mother, it's nothing," she said, clasping her hard, — "only — only —"
The words were lost again in what seemed to be uncontrollable weeping.
"Only what, dear? — what?"
"Winthrop was crying."
And having said that, scarce audibly, Winifred gave way and cried aloud.