Your mother seemed in a hurry like."
"She didn't ask where I was?"
"No, miss."
"Did she go out with father?"
"No, miss--your father went out a quarter of an hour earlier."
Gladys coughed. "Please, miss, Cook and me's wanting to go out and see the
Procession."
"Oh, of course you must. But that won't be until half-past nine. They come
past here, you know."
"Yes, miss."
Joan picked up the new number of the _Cornhill Magazine_ and tried to
settle down. But she was restless. Her own happiness made her so. And then
the house was "queer." It had the sense of itself waiting for some effort,
and holding its breath in expectation.
As Joan sat there trying to read the _Cornhill_ serial, and most
sadly failing, it seemed to her stranger and stranger that her mother was
not in. She had not been well lately; Joan had noticed how white she had
looked; she had always a "headache" when you asked her how she was. Joan
had fancied that she had never been the same since Falk had been away. She
had a letter in her dress now from Falk. She took it out and read it over
again.
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