It was as though the
spring cleaning, which by day proved mentally beneficial, became
deleterious during these long night watches. The neater, the cleaner,
the brighter she made her home, the more terrible must be a sentence
of perpetual banishment.
On Friday afternoon the work was nearly over. Kitchen utensils were
like shining mirrors; the flowers of the best carpet were like real
blossoms budding after rain; and Mavis on the step-ladder, with a
smudged face, untidy hair, and grimy hands, had begun to reinstate the
pictures handed to her by Mary, when Miss Yorke came knocking abruptly
at the parlor door.
"A telegram, ma'am."
"All right."
Mavis had come down the ladder, and as she opened the yellow envelope
she began to tremble.
"Answer paid, ma'am. Shall I wait?"
"No. I--I'll--No, don't wait."
It was from Dale. She had sat down on the lowest step of the ladder,
and was trembling violently. "Oh, how dreadful!" She muttered the
words mechanically, without any attempt to express her actual thought.
"How very dreadful!"
"What is it, ma'am? Bad news?"
"Oh, most dreadful. But perhaps a mistake. I'm to find out;" and she
stared stupidly at the paper that was shaking in her fingers.
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