The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (7.1895)

By Netta Syrett 159
hand, which she withdrew, a second after, in confusion. Her
mother laughed.
“You are not going to read it now, then, Cecie ? ”
“No, mother,” she replied, flushing hotly.
An hour or two later, Gretchen opened the door of Cecily’s
bedroom. She was pre-occupied, and entered without knocking ;
indeed, she had taken the dress she had come for out of the ward-
robe, and was leaving the room before she noticed that Cecily was
there.
The girl sat in the corner of the window seat, trying to turn
her head so as to hide that she was crying—an open letter lay on
her lap.
Gretchen started. Instinctively her hand groped for the back
of a chair she was passing ; then she drew it away, and straight-
ened herself.
“ What is the matter, Cecily ? ” she asked—her voice sounded
a little strained, but it was calm enough. “ You have not ”—she
paused—-“ there is no bad news ? ”
Cecily’s low sobs choked her voice. There was time for
Gretchen to glance at her own face in the glass and to turn back
to the light, before she replied.
“N—no,” she said at last; “but-” Gretchen crossed to
her side.
“Won’t you tell me ? ” she asked. There was a little tremble
in her tone now. Cecily heard it, and looked up gratefully.
Gretchen seemed sorry.
“ I don’t like to,” she murmured. “ You’ll say—oh, it’s too
silly ! ” Her voice broke again in a half sob.
“ Never mind. Tell me.”
“ Only that—only—because—because I shall have to answer
it.”

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