"What do you think?" she began, handing me a cup of tea as soon as I
had strode to the parlour fire-place.
"I think this hot tea is mighty welcome," said I, "and that my left
ear is nigh frozen. What else?"
"Margaret has gone," she replied, beginning to rub my ear vigorously.
"Gone! Where?" I looked around as if to make sure there was no sign of
her in the room.
"With Ned--on the _Phoebe_."
"The deuce! How could you let her do it--you, and her mother, and
Fanny?"
"We didn't know. I took some jelly over to old Miss Watts--she's very
feeble--and Madge and Ned went while I was out; they had their trunks
carted off at the same time. 'Twasn't for an hour or two I became
curious why she kept her room, as I thought; and when I went up to
see, the room was empty. There were two letters there from her, one to
me and one to her mother. She said she left in that way, to save the
pain of farewells, and to avoid our useless persuasions against her
going. Isn't it terrible?--poor child! Why it seems only yesterday--"
And my good mother's lips drew suddenly down at the corners, and she
began to sniff spasmodically.
"But is it too late?" I asked, in a suddenly quieted voice. That the
brightness and beauty of Madge, which had been a part of my world
since I could remember, should have gone from about us, all in a
moment!--'twas a new thought, and a strange one. What a blank she
left, what a dulness!
"Too late, heaven knows!" said my mother, drying her eyes with a
handkerchief, and speaking brokenly.
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