Clean Hands

"I am not really sick, aunt, but I have no appetite, and having a
great deal to think of, I preferred staying here to going to the
table," was her answer to Mrs Sutton's inquiries.

"Your hands are cold and lifeless as clay, my child. What is the
matter? It is not like you to be moping up here, alone in the dark."

"Won't you leave me to myself for a while, and keep Rosa
down-stairs?" asked Mabel, more patiently than peevishly. "Before
bed-time I will see you in your room, and we can talk of what has
disturbed me."

"My daughter," murmured the gentle-hearted chaperone, trying to draw
the erect head to her shoulder, as she stood by her niece.

Mabel resisted the kindly force.

"No, no, aunt. I cannot bear that yet. I have just begun to think
connectedly, and petting would unnerve me."

This was strange talk from the frank-hearted child she had reared
from babyhood, and while she desisted from further attempts at
consolation, Aunt Rachel took a very sober visage back to the
supper-room with her, and as little appetite as Rosa had manifested.
The meal was quickly over, and by way of obeying the second part of
Mabel's behest, the innocent diplomatist begged Rosa to go to the
piano.

"I always enjoy your delightful music, my dear. It makes the house
more lively."