“No,” he answered, standing in front of her. “They went over to McGill's as soon as breakfast was finished. You know their little boy got kicked by a mule yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard so, and I'm glad they are not here—though you'd better tell them I came. If you don't, and the Marshalls happen to mention it to them, they might think it strange.”
“You wanted to see me alone, then?” Hillhouse put out his stiff, tentative hand and drew a chair to him and sat down in it.
“Yes, I'm in trouble—great, great trouble,” the old woman said, her steely glance on his face; “and to tell you the truth, I don't see how I'm going to get around it. I couldn't mention it to any one else but you, not even Nathan nor mother. In fact, you ought to know, for it's bound to worry you, too.”
“Oh, Sister Porter, what is it? Don't keep me waiting. I knew you were in some trouble when I saw your face as you came in at the gate. Is it about—”
“Of course it's about Cynthia,” sighed the woman—“about her and Nelson Floyd.”
“He's dead, and she—” Hillhouse began, but Mrs. Porter stopped him.
“No, that isn't it,” she went on. “He's alive. He's back here.”
“Oh, is that so?” Hillhouse leaned forward, his face white, his thin lips quivering.
“Yes, I'll tell you about it,” went on Mrs. Porter. “Of late I've been unable to sleep for thinking of Cynthia and her actions, she's seemed so reckless and despondent, and last night I left my bed and started to creep in and see if she was asleep. I had on soft slippers and made no noise, and had just got to the end of the hall, when her door opened and she went out at the front.”