“Yes. And I'll go up and get the breakfast for them in the morning. There won't be much to do.”
“Dumn 'em! Let 'em get their own breakfast!” said Whitwell, recklessly.
“And, father,” the girl went on as if he had not spoken, “don't you talk to Mrs. Durgin about it, will you?”
“No, no. I sha'n't speak to her. I'll just tell Frank you and me are goin' to stay down here to-night. She'll suspicion something, but she can figure it out for herself. Or she can make Jeff tell her. It can't be kept from her.”
“Well, let him be the one to tell her. Whatever happens, I shall never speak of it to a soul besides you.”
“All right, Cynthy. You'll have the night to think it over—I guess you won't sleep much—and I'll trust you to do what's the best thing about it.”
XLV.
Cynthia found Mrs. Durgin in the old farm-house kitchen at work getting breakfast when she came up to the hotel in the morning. She was early, but the elder woman had been earlier still, and her heavy face showed more of their common night-long trouble than the girl's.
She demanded, at sight of her, “What's the matter with you and Jeff, Cynthy?”