The friends returned to their seat, on which Kate left her work.
She took it up and for a few moments Isabel watched her in silence.
"When did you see Rowan?"
"You know he lives in the country," replied Isabel, with an air of
defensive gayety.
"And does he never come to town?"
"How should I know?"
Kate took this seriously and her head sank lower over her work:
"Ah," she thought to herself, "she will not confide in me any
longer. She keeps her secrets from me--me who shared them all my
life."
"What is it you are making?"
Isabel stretched out her hand, but Kate with a cry threw her breast
downward upon her work. With laughter they struggled over it; Kate
released it and Isabel rising held it up before her. Then she
allowed it to drop to the floor.
"Isabel!" exclaimed Kate, her face grown cold and hard. She
stooped with dignity and picked up the garment.
"Oh, forgive me," implored Isabel, throwing her arms around her
neck. "I did not know what I was doing!" and she buried her face
on the young wife's shoulder. "I was thinking of myself: I cannot
tell you why!"
Kate released herself gently. Her face remained grave. She had
felt the first wound of motherhood: it could not be healed at once.
The friends could not look at each other. Isabel began to draw on
her gloves and Kate did not seek to keep her longer.
"I must go. Dear friend, have you forgiven me? I cannot tell you
what was in my heart. Some day you will understand. Try to
forgive till you do understand."