One day papa went up into New Hampshire; Aunt Willoughby was dead; and one day Lu came home.
She was very pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow and purple.
"There is some mistake, Lu," I said. "It is you who are dead, instead of Aunt Willoughby."
"Do I look so wretchedly?" she asked, glancing at the mirror.
"Dreadfully! Is it all watching and grief?"
"Watching and grief," said Lu.
How melancholy her smile was! She would have crazed me in a little while, if I had minded her.
"Did you care so much for fretful, crabbed Aunt Willoughby?"
"She was very kind to me," Lu replied.
There was an odd air with her that day. She didn't go at once and get off her travelling-dress, but trifled about in a kind of expectancy, a little fever going and coming in her cheeks, and turning at any noise.