Nobody knows where you are!"
Parepa laughed merrily at this idea.
"Dinner shall be served in this room, and I won't allow even the servant
to look at you!" I said.
She clasped her dimpled hands together, like a child in enjoyment, and
then sprang up to roll the little center-table near the grate.
The snow had now turned into sleet; a great chill fell over the whole
city. We looked out of our windows, peeping through the shutters, and
pitying the people as they rushed past.
A sharp rap on my door. John thrust in a note.
"MY DEAR FRIEND:--Can you come? Annie has gone. She said you would
be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last. She
will be buried at four."
I laid the poor little blotted note in Parepa's hand. How it stormed! We
looked into each other's faces helplessly. I said, "Dear, I must go, but
you sit by the fire and rest. I'll be at home in two hours. And poor
Annie has gone!"
"Tell me about it, Mary, for I am going with you," she answered.
She threw on her heavy cloak, wound her long white woolen scarf closely
about her throat, drew on her woolen gloves, and we set out together in
the wild Easter storm.
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