If he never came,
it would be no more than she deserved; but she sent
for Penelope, and tried to give herself hopes of escape from
this just penalty.
Lapham had not told his daughter where he was going;
she had heard him packing his bag, and had offered to help him;
but he had said he could do it best, and had gone off,
as he usually did, without taking leave of any one.
"What were you talking about so loud, down in the parlour,"
she asked her mother, "just before he came up. Is there
any new trouble?"
"No; it was nothing."
"I couldn't tell. Once I thought you were laughing."
She went about, closing the curtains on account of her
mother's headache, and doing awkwardly and imperfectly
the things that Irene would have done so skilfully for
her comfort.
The day wore away to nightfall, and then Mrs. Lapham said
she MUST know. Penelope said there was no one to ask;
the clerks would all be gone home, and her mother said yes,
there was Mr. Corey; they could send and ask him;
he would know.
The girl hesitated. "Very well," she said, then, scarcely
above a whisper, and she presently laughed huskily.
"Mr. Corey seems fated to come in, somewhere. I guess
it's a Providence, mother."
She sent off a note, inquiring whether he could tell
her just where her father had expected to be that night;
and the answer came quickly back that Corey did not know,
but would look up the book-keeper and inquire.
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