“Poor darling!  And what did you do all night in the blue room?  I am afraid,” looking at her downcast eyes, “that you did not sleep—­that you were angry at me.”

“At you?  No, at myself,” she said very low.

“Bessie, you know that my first and only thought was of the hurry and worry this journey would cost you.  You know that to have you with me was something that I had scarce dared to dream.”

“And therefore,” with a flash of blue eyes, “for me to dare to dream it was—­” and again she hid her face.

“But, my precious, don’t you know that it was for you to suggest what I wanted all the time, but thought it would be too much to ask?” For I had discovered, of course, in my morning’s work among the dead leaves on the porch, that I had desired it from the moment I had known of my journey—­desired it without acknowledging it to myself or presuming to plan upon it.

At this juncture breakfast was announced, and the folding doors thrown open that led into the breakfast-parlor, disclosing Mrs. Sloman seated by the silver urn, and a neat little table spread for three, so quick had been the housemaid’s intuitions.

“Good-morning, Charles:  come get some breakfast.  You will hardly be in time for your train,” suggested Aunt Sloman in a voice that had in it all the gloom of the morning.  Indeed, the clouds had gathered heavily during the parlor scene, and some large drops were rattling against the window.

I looked at my watch.  After eight!  Pshaw!  I will let this train go, and will telegraph to the office.  I can take the night train, and thus lose only a few hours.  So I stayed.

What rare power had Bessie in the very depths of her trouble, and with her face pale and eyes so heavy with her last night’s vigil—­what gift that helped her to be gay?  Apparently not with an effort, not forced, she was as joyous and frank as her sunniest self.  No exaggeration of laughter or fun, but the brightness of her every-day manner, teasing and sparkling round Aunt Sloman, coquetting very naturally with me.  It was a swift change from the gloomy atmosphere we had left behind in the parlor, and I basked in it delighted, and feeling, poor fool! that the storm was cleared away, and that the time for the singing of birds was come.

I was the more deceived.  I did not know all of Bessie yet.  Her horror of a scene, of any suspicion that there was discord between us, and her rare self-control, that for the moment put aside all trouble, folded it out of sight and took up the serene old life again for a little space.

“Aunt Maria,” said Bessie, pushing aside her chair, “won’t you take care of Mr. Munro for a little while?  I have a letter to write that I want him to take to New York.”

Aunt Maria would be happy to entertain me, or rather to have me entertain her.  If I would read to her, now, would I be so kind, while she washed up her breakfast cups?