“That,” declared Aunt Mary, “is certainly an advantage.”
“And no chocolate cake, and bed at ten o'clock,” said Uncle Tom.
Honora, dazed, only half heard them. She laughed at Uncle Tom because she always had, but tears were shining in her eyes. Young men and chocolate cake! What were these privations compared to that magic word Change? Suddenly she rose, and flung her arms about Uncle Tom's neck and kissed his rough cheek, and then embraced Aunt Mary. They would be lonely.
“Aunt Mary, I can't bear to leave you—but I do so want to go! And it won't be for long—will it? Only until next spring.”
“Until next summer, I believe,” replied Aunt Mary, gently; “June is a summer month-isn't it, Tom?”
“It will be a summer month without question next year,” answered Uncle Tom, enigmatically.
It has been remarked that that day was sultry, and a fine rain was now washing Uncle Tom's flowers for him. It was he who had applied that term “washing” since the era of ultra-soot. Incredible as it may seem, life proceeded as on any other of a thousand rainy nights. The lamps were lighted in the sitting-room, Uncle Tom unfolded his gardening periodical, and Aunt Mary her embroidery. The gate slammed, with its more subdued, rainy-weather sound.
“It's Peter,” said Honora, flying downstairs. And she caught him, astonished, as he was folding his umbrella on the step. “Oh, Peter, if you tried until to-morrow morning, you never could guess what has happened.”
He stood for a moment, motionless, staring at her, a tall figure, careless of the rain.
“You are going away,” he said.