She had left her grandfather's room for the last. Mr. Carleton did not follow her in there, guessing that she would rather be alone. But she did not come back, and he was forced to go to fetch her.
The chill desolateness of that room had been too much for poor little Fleda. The empty bedstead, the cold stove, the table bare of books, only one or two lay upon the old bible,--the forlorn order of the place that bespoke the master far away, the very sunbeams that stole in at the little windows and met now no answering look of gladness or gratitude,--it had struck the child's heart too heavily, and she was standing crying by the window. A second time in that room Mr. Carleton sat down and drew his little charge to his breast and spoke words of soothing and sympathy.
"I am very sorry I brought you here, dear Elfie," he said kindly. "It was too hard for you."
"O no!"--even through her tears Fleda said,--"she was very glad."
"Hadn't we better try to overtake our friends?" he whispered after another pause.
She immediately, almost immediately, put away her tears, and with a quiet obedience that touched him went with him from the room; fastened the door and got out again at the little window.
"O Mr. Carleton!" she said with great earnestness when they had almost reached the horses, "won't you wait for me one minute more?--I just want a piece of the burning bush "--
She stood back and watched.
Drawing her hand from him she rushed round to the front of the house. A little more slowly Mr. Carleton followed, and found her under the burning bush, tugging furiously at a branch beyond her strength to break off.