“Do sit down and rest,” she said. “But where is the baby? Why on earth didn't you bring her?”
Bessie clasped her hands tightly in her lap, and looked steadily at the questioner before answering. “The baby is at home!” she said then, in a low voice.
Aunt Nancy was just turning away for some hospitable purpose, but the look and tone arrested her.
“You don't mean—” she began, but went no further.
“Yes,” replied Bessie quietly; “there is only James left.”
James was the eldest child.
Mrs. Nancy Maynard was not much given to expressions of tenderness—New England people of the old sort seldom were—but she laid her hand softly on her niece's shoulder, and said unsteadily:
“You poor dear, how tried you have been!”
“We have all our trials,” responded the other, with a sort of coldness.
The old woman knew not what to say. She turned away, mending the fire. If Bessie had wept, she would have known how to comfort her; but this strange calmness was embarrassing. Scarcely less embarrassing was the light, indifferent talk that followed, the questions concerning crops, and weather, and little household affairs, evidently put to set aside more serious topics.