My voice sounded so loud that it almost seemed as though they could hear me down at the church; the people at our table all stopped talking, and I just knew they could hear my heart beat.
“You!” said grandma. “You let the cat out?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, “I broke the dish.”
Then she questioned, and I answered, until somehow, she had the whole story.
I don’t think any tears dropped, but my eyes and my throat felt full of them. It didn’t seem to me that I could say another word, and then grandma said: “Well, well, child, there are worse things in the world than broken dishes. Eat your wedding cake, and think no more about it.” And I heard her call one of the waiters, and say to him: “Tell little John that he may dress himself again in his best suit, and come to the dining-room as soon as he is ready.” Then I knew that I had been none too soon with my confession.
And the bride, my dear, sweet aunt Kate, leaned over toward me and spoke low, “There are better things than glass dishes,” she said; “there are little nieces who are true.”
And papa looked across the table at me, and nodded, and smiled.
And in spite of the lovely broken dish, and the tablecloth, and my being ashamed, and all, I never felt happier in my life.
And as for the verse, if you girls can’t fit it to the cat story, I shall not be surprised; for I can’t explain it myself, but I know they fitted when the time came. Good-by!
Your loving, lonely
Cora.