She lamented only over Richard
living alone and unministered to until he died.
When daylight came she got up, dressed herself, and prepared
breakfast. Charlotte came down before it was ready. "Let me help get
breakfast," she said, with an assumption of energy, standing in the
kitchen doorway in her pretty mottled purple delaine. The purple was
the shade of columbine, and very becoming to Charlotte. In spite of
her sleepless night, her fine firm tints had not faded; she was too
young and too strong and too full of involuntary resistance. She had
done up her fair hair compactly; her chin had its usual proud lift.
Sylvia, shrinking as if before some unseen enemy as she moved about,
her face all wan and weary, glanced at her half resentfully. "I guess
she 'ain't had any such night as I have," she thought. "Girls don't
know much about it."
"No, I don't need any help," she replied, aloud. "I 'ain't got
anything to do but to stir up an Injun cake. You've got your best
dress on. You'd better go and sit down."
"It won't hurt my dress any." Charlotte glanced down half scornfully
at her purple skirt. It had lost all its glory for her. She was not
even sure that Barney had seen it.
"Set down. I've got breakfast 'most ready," Sylvia said, again, more
peremptorily than she was wont, and Charlotte sat down in the
hollow-backed cherry rocking-chair beside the kitchen window, leaned
her head back, and looked out indifferently between the lilac-bushes.
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