Than this last remark, nothing could have easily been more unjust. Nancy had always been a very truthful child.
"If you can no longer trust me, it is perhaps better for me—to—to go away," said Nancy, softly.
"Yes—go—go now," replied her mother, who had arrived at that stage of rage when people use words little heeding their meaning.
Nancy buttoned her little jacket once more, and tied a silk handkerchief round her neck, and passed out at the door in a wild, hurried fashion.
Mrs. Forest looked at the door and smiled. "She'll none go," she said to herself; "where could she go to?"
But Nancy did not resemble her mother in hasty moods, she was rather the subject of permanent impressions. Her mother's conduct had wounded her to the quick. She could no longer endure it, she thought. Hitherto, her father's love had rendered it bearable—but now, even that seemed powerless to keep her under the same roof as her mother. Where could she go? She would walk on, no matter in what direction; then, when she could walk no more, she might perhaps be calm enough to think.
IV.
"Where is Nan?" asked John Forest, when he entered the house, an hour after Nancy had left it.
"Oh, she'll be here presently," replied the mother evasively. Of course Nancy would come soon, she thought to herself, and what was the use of rousing John?