When they had reached home, and Wally had gone into her room to take off her holiday finery, old Luckard who had lived with her mother and her grandmother, and who had brought Wally up from her cradle, put her head in at the door. "Wally, hast been weeping?" she whispered.
"Why?" asked the girl with unwonted sharpness.
"There were tears on the cards--I laid out the pack of cards for thy confirmation; thou fell between two knaves and I was frightened at it; it was all as near as if it had happened to-day and close by."
"Like enough," said the girl indifferently, and laid away her mother's beautiful gown in the big wooden chest.
"Does anything ail thee, child?" asked the old woman. "Thou looks so ill and thou'st come home so early. Didn't thou dance?"
"Dance!" The girl laughed, a hard shrill laugh, as though one should strike a lute with a hammer till the strings ring back all jarred and jangled out of tune. "What have I to do with dancing."
"Something's happened to thee, child--tell me--perhaps I can help thee."
"None can help me," said Wally, and shut down the lid of the chest as if she would bury in it all that was oppressing her. It was as though she were closing down the coffin-lid over all her youthful hopes.
"Go now," she said imperiously, as she had never spoken before, "I shall rest awhile."
"Jesus, Maria!" shrieked Luckard, "there lies thy rosary all broken. Where are the beads?"