Joan might have answered, "Because I have some sense of duty!" But she said nothing—it was so useless.
She debated whether to write a note for Mittie to take, and then decided that she would run down to the river-edge and would explain to Fred Ferris himself why she might not go, not implying any blame to her sister, but just saying that she could not leave her grandmother.
The thought of this cheered her up, for surely he would understand.
But a few minutes before the time fixed for his arrival a message summoned her to the old lady, and she found that for a good half-hour she would be unable to get away. All she could do was to rush to Mittie and to give a hurried message—which she felt far from certain would be correctly delivered.
Then for a moment she stood outside Mrs. Wills's room, choking back the sobs which swelled in her throat, and feeling very sad and hopeless at the thought of all she would miss, still more at the thought that her absence might be misunderstood.
From the window, as she attended to her grandmother's wants, she had a glimpse of Mittie, running gaily down the garden, in her pretty white frock, carrying an open Japanese parasol in one hand, while from the other dangled her hat and a small basket of flowers.
"Oh, Mittie, I wouldn't have done it to you—if you had cared as I do!" she breathed.
When Mittie reached the stream, Ferris had that moment arrived.
He had made fast the painter, intending to run up to the house, and had stepped back into the boat to put the cushions right.
A straight well-built young fellow, he looked eagerly up at the sound of steps; and when Mittie appeared alone, a momentary look of surprise came. But, of course Joan would follow!