“Mother, I don't want to say—even to you. I have reasons why—”
“It was from Fred Walton! You need not deny it.”
Dora made no protest; she simply dropped her eyes to her lap, and sat motionless.
“You knew he had left, didn't you?”
“Yes, mother. I knew he was gone.”
“And while the whole town is wondering why he went, you know, I suppose?”
“I don't feel that I have the right to talk about it, mother.”
“Well, I sha'n't urge you!” And the older woman shambled away, now bearing doubts which were heavier and more maddening than ever.
“Something's wrong—very, very wrong—or she wouldn't droop like that,” she said. “Oh, God have mercy, I'm actually afraid to question my own child! I am afraid to even do that!”
The sun went down, the night came on; workingmen, women, and children passed along on their homeward way from the cotton and woolen mills, carrying their dinner-pails. The very cheerfulness of their faces, lightness of step, and merry jesting with one another sent shafts of misery to the heart of the brooding woman. When she had put the supper on the table she went to the daughter's room and told her it was ready.