She had found there a certainty that, whatever else she did,
she must NOT hurt Aunt Frances's feelings--dear, gentle, sweet Aunt
Frances, whose feelings were so easily hurt and who had given her so
many years of such anxious care. Something up there had told her--
perhaps the quiet blue shadow of Windward Mountain creeping slowly over
the pasture toward her, perhaps the silent glory of the great red-and-
gold tree, perhaps the singing murmur of the little brook--perhaps all
of them together had told her that now had come a time when she must do
more than what Cousin Ann would do--when she must do what she herself
knew was right. And that was to protect Aunt Frances from hurt.
When she spoke, out there in the orchard, she broke the spell of
silence. Cousin Ann climbed hastily down from her tree, with her basket
only partly filled. Uncle Henry got stiffly off his ladder, and Aunt
Abigail advanced through the grass. And they all said the same thing--
"Let me see that letter."
They read it there, looking over each other's shoulders, with grave
faces. Then, still silently, they all turned and went back into the
house, leaving their forgotten bags and barrels and baskets out under
the trees. When they found themselves in the kitchen--"Well, it's
suppertime, anyhow," said Cousin Ann hastily, as if ashamed of losing
her composure, "or almost time.
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