“You may think you've got my eyes closed,” the old woman said, “but you haven't. You didn't have any engagement with Nelson Floyd last night at supper, and you either saw him after we went to bed or you have had a secret note from him this morning.”
“Have it your own way,” Cynthia said, indifferently, and hot with vexation she bent her head over her work.
“I was watching your face this morning, too,” Mrs. Porter went on, “when your pa came in and said that Wade did not meet Floyd at the spring, and I noticed that you did not seem at all surprised. I'll get at the bottom of this, now you see if I don't!” And white with suppressed anger, Mrs. Porter turned away.
As she went out Mrs. Radcliffe, with a tottering step, came into the room and drew near to Cynthia.
“I am worried about your mother,” she said, standing with her thin hand resting on the window-frame. “She troubles so much over small things. I shudder when I think about it, Cynthia; but I'm afraid she'll go like your aunt did. It seems to be inherited from your grandfather's side of the family.”
“Are you really afraid of that, granny?” The girl looked up, a serious expression dawning in her eyes.
“Well, I don't know as I think she'd actually kill herself, as Martha did, but if this goes on her mind certainly will give way. It's not natural—it's too great a strain for one human brain to stand. She didn't sleep a wink last night I know that, for I woke up several times and heard her moving about and sighing.”
“Poor mamma!” Cynthia said, regretfully, to herself, as her grandmother moved slowly from the room. “And I spoke disrespectfully to her just now. Besides, perhaps I have given her cause to worry, from her stand-point. God forgive me, I really did go out to meet him that way, and if she thinks it would be so bad, what must he think? Is it possible for him to class me with—to think of me as—as he does of—Oh!” and with a hot flush burning her face, Cynthia rose hastily and put her work away.