After Towne had gone she sat for a long time thinking it over. She blamed herself. She had broken her promise. Yet, he, too, had broken a promise.
She finished mending the stockings, and rolled them into compact balls. The little cats were asleep—the shadows were stretched out and the sun slanted through the pines. She had dinner to get, for her return had been unexpected, and Sophy had not been notified.
She might have brought to the thought of her tasks some faint feeling of regret. But she had none. She was glad to go in—to make an omelette—and cream the potatoes—and have hot biscuits and berries—and honey.
Planning thus, competently, she raised her eyes—to see coming along the path the two boys who had of late been Evans’ close companions. She spoke to them as they reached her. “Can’t you stay a minute? I’ll make you some lemonade.”
They stopped and looked at her in a way that startled her. “We can’t,” Arthur said; “we’re going over to the Follettes. We thought we might help.”
She stared at them. “Help? What do you mean?”
Sandy gasped. “Oh, didn’t you know? Mrs. Follette died this morning....”