Mother seemed just the same as always in her manner, only she was so silent and so grave—silent even for her. She hardly opened her lips at all, and I could see a sort of grieved look: not vexed—only grieved. And I knew it was about me. I longed to tell her I was sorry; yet I said nothing. I hadn't been downstairs an hour, when something took us both by surprise. Mother was washing up the breakfast china, and I was drying the cups, when all of a sudden the kitchen door leading into the garden was pushed gently open, and Mary Russell walked in. Mother just said "Mary!" and I let slip the cup I held, so that it fell and was broken. "No need for that either!" mother said. Mary stood still, looking at us with such sorrowful eyes, and her face was more worn and pale than when she went away. One could see she had had trouble or worry of some sort, since leaving us. Mother picked up the three pieces of the cup, and put them on the table. Then she went forward, and gave Mary a kiss. "My dear, you're always welcome," she said. "But why didn't you tell us you were coming?" "I didn't know—till—" Mary said. "Till when?" mother asked. "Till late last night." "And you look as if you hadn't slept all night, neither," says mother. "Sit down, and Kitty shall make you a cup of tea. You must have had breakfast early." "I didn't have any breakfast," Mary said, with a sort of smile. "Nor any sleep, either." "None at all!" says mother. "I didn't go to bed. I had a lot to think about." "If I was you, I'd have thought about it lying down," says mother. "That wasn't like your wisdom, Mary." "Maybe not," Mary said, with a strange look. "But I've got to tell you—" "You've got to tell me nothing till you've had some breakfast," says mother, making Mary take a seat. "There's boiling water all ready, and Kitty shall see to the tea sharp. Cut some bread and butter too, Kitty. No, I won't have you talk, Mary, till you've taken something. It isn't long to wait." It mightn't be long to mother, but it was long to me. I wondered so, what could Mary be going to say? Was it about her brother? Had something happened to him? I didn't know how to bear the putting off, and I hurried all I could with the tea and bread and butter, so as I might hear the sooner. Mary sat still, looking from mother to me. There was a pitying look in her eyes that I couldn't make out. "Did you see my husband in the station, Mary?" mother asked, when I had brought the tea, and put it in front of Mary, and she had begun to sip. Mary gave a sorrowful glance up in mother's face. "Yes," she said; "I saw him at the further end of the platform. I didn't stop to speak to him, and he didn't see me. I thought I'd come here first."