“Not so much cross as sort of soft, and sweet, and aggravating,” sniffled Rebecca.

“He never raised his voice,” said Caroline; “but he had his way.”

“He had a right to in this case.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He had as much of a right here as Henry,” sobbed Rebecca, “and now he’s gone, and he will never be in this home that poor father left him and the rest of us again.”

“What do you really think ailed Edward?” asked Emma in hardly more than a whisper.  She did not look at her sister.

Caroline sat down in a nearby armchair, and clutched the arms convulsively until her thin knuckles whitened.

“I told you,” said she.

Rebecca held her handkerchief over her mouth, and looked at them above it with terrified, streaming eyes.

“I know you said that he had terrible pains in his stomach, and had spasms, but what do you think made him have them?”

“Henry called it gastric trouble.  You know Edward has always had dyspepsia.”

Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment.  “Was there any talk of an—­ examination?” said she.

Then Caroline turned on her fiercely.

“No,” said she in a terrible voice.  “No.”

The three sisters’ souls seemed to meet on one common ground of terrified understanding though their eyes.  The old-fashioned latch of the door was heard to rattle, and a push from without made the door shake ineffectually.  “It’s Henry,” Rebecca sighed rather than whispered.  Mrs. Brigham settled herself after a noiseless rush across the floor into her rocking-chair again, and was swaying back and forth with her head comfortably leaning back, when the door at last yielded and Henry Glynn entered.  He cast a covertly sharp, comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at Rebecca quietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her handkerchief to her face and only one small reddened ear as attentive as a dog’s uncovered and revealing her alertness for his presence; at Caroline sitting with a strained composure in her armchair by the stove.  She met his eyes quite firmly with a look of inscrutable fear, and defiance of the fear and of him.

Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others.  Both had the same hard delicacy of form and feature, both were tall and almost emaciated, both had a sparse growth of gray blond hair far back from high intellectual foreheads, both had an almost noble aquilinity of feature.  They confronted each other with the pitiless immovability of two statues in whose marble lineaments emotions were fixed for all eternity.

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face.  He looked suddenly years younger, and an almost boyish recklessness and irresolution appeared in his face.  He flung himself into a chair with a gesture which was bewildering from its incongruity with his general appearance.  He leaned his head back, flung one leg over the other, and looked laughingly at Mrs. Brigham.