All these
things her Aunt Felicia knew about and yet she could not drag a
word out of her.
What she ought to have done was to go herself that first night,
bravely, honestly, fearlessly as any friend had a right to do; go
to him in his miserable little hotel and try to cheer him up as
Miss Felicia, and perhaps Miss Bolton, had done. Then she might
have found out all about it. Exactly what it was that she wanted
to find out all about--and this increased her perplexity--she
could not formulate, although she was convinced it would help her
to bear the anxiety she was suffering. Now it was too late; more
than a week had passed, and no excuse for going was possible.
It was not until the morning after Peter's departure,--she,
sitting alone, sad and silent in her chair at the head of her
father's breakfast table (Miss Felicia, as was her custom, had her
coffee in her room), that the first ray of light had crept into
her troubled brain. It had only shone a brief moment,--and had
then gone out in darkness, but it held a certain promise for
better days, and on this she had built her hopes.
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