Yet, what should they do with her, with whom to trust her during
their uncertain absence on the other side? No answer that came
to their minds seemed the right one. They rose that wintry
morning without having this most important of all questions
decided.
This was Sunday and Mrs. Joyce always came over for breakfast;
for she lived alone and never had any too much to eat, Nan was
sure. As for the old woman's eating with the family, that was a
fiction she kept up for appearance's sake, perhaps, or to salve
her own claims to former gentility. She always set a place for
herself at the family table in the dining room and then was too
busy to eat with them, taking her own meal in the kitchen.
Therefore it was she only who heard the commanding rap at the
kitchen door in the midst of the leisurely meal, and answered it.
Just then Nan had dropped her knife and fork and was staring from
Momsey's pitying face to Papa Sherwood's grave one, as she cried,
in a whisper:
"Not me? Oh, my dears! You're never going without me, all that
long journey? What, whatever shall I do without you both?"
"Don't, honey! Don't say it that way!" begged Momsey, putting
her handkerchief to her eyes.
"If it was not quite impossible, do you think for a moment,
daughter, that we would contemplate leaving you at home?" queried
Mr.
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