"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.
"How did you guess it?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Yes—to boarding-school. To Sutcliffe, on the Hudson, with Edith and Mary. Aren't you glad? You look as though you had seen a ghost."
"Do I?" said Peter.
"Don't stand there in the rain," commanded Honora; "come into the parlour, and I'll tell you all about it."
He came in. She took the umbrella from him, and put it in the rack.
"Why don't you congratulate me?" she demanded.