Elizabeth came to a full stop. She was too honest to extricate herself from the difficulty, and too polite to state the truth.
"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Loring, quietly, "I knew your aunts when I was a girl, it is true. But I cannot tell you about the room. Your aunt does not wish you to know, Elizabeth, and therefore you should not try to find out."
"I know I shouldn't, but it is so interesting. But I don't care so much about it, now that I have Patsy."
When Elizabeth went home that afternoon the old house looked grim and deserted. The aunts were out, as usual. She studied her lessons, and then sat down with a book by the front window. The rain had ceased, but the clouds were still thick and dark, and the room, handsomely furnished though it was, looked gloomier even than was its wont. It reminded her of the day, a whole year ago, when she wrote the letter to her lather—the letter which he had never answered.
Elizabeth's book fell from her hand and she leaned her head drearily against the window-pane. A whole year, and still he had not come.
Her attention was suddenly attracted by a figure on the sidewalk. It stood still for a moment, and then approached the steps. It was a boy in an overcoat, with the collar turned up about his ears, and a hat drawn closely down over his face. There was something familiar about that part of the face which could be seen, and almost immediately Elizabeth recognized him. It was Valentine.
He came up the steps and motioned to her to open the door.
"They are out, aren't they?" he asked, in a whisper.
"Why, Val, where did you come from?" exclaimed Elizabeth, but he interrupted her.
"Hush! Don't talk so loud. Are they out?"