"I've never kept anything from you before, mama," Lavinia cried.
"No," Mrs. Blair whispered. "Can't you tell mama now?"
And then with her mother's arms about her Lavinia told her all. When she had finished she lay tranquilly. Mrs. Blair was relieved and yet her troubles had but grown the more complicated. She saw all the intricate elements with which she would have to deal, and she quailed before them, realizing what tact would be required of her.
"The coming of love should be a time of joy, dear," she said presently. Even in the darkness, she could see the white blur of Lavinia's face change its expression. A smile had touched it.
"But I never kept anything from you before."
"But you kept this only a day, dear. That doesn't count."
"I know, sweetheart." The mother kissed her, and they were silent a while.
"I do love him so," said Lavinia, presently. "And you'll love him too, mama, I know you will."
Mrs. Blair felt the girl grow tense in her arms.
"That will all come right in time," said Mrs. Blair.
"Not just now, dear. We'll have this for a little secret of our own. There's plenty of time. You are young, you know, and so is Glenn."
Mrs. Blair remained with Lavinia until she had tucked her into her bed.
"Just my little child," the mother whispered over the girl. "Just my little child."
"Yes, always that," said Lavinia. And her mother kissed her again and again, and left her in the dark.
When Mrs. Blair rejoined her husband, he laid down the book he always read before retiring, and looked up with the question in his eyes.
"She's just a little nervous and tired," Mrs. Blair said. "She'll be all right in the morning. I think it best not to notice her."
"Do you think we'd better have Doctor Pierce see her?"
"Oh, not at all!" Mrs. Blair laughed, and the judge, reassured, went back to his book.
They were awakened from their first doze that night by voices singing.
"It's some of the darkies from Gooseville," said Mrs. Blair. "They're out serenading."
"Yes," said the judge. "It is sweet to fall asleep by."
At the sound of the singing Lavinia had crept from her bed and crouched in her white night-dress before the open window; the shutters were closed. She heard the melody from far down the street. The singing ceased, then began again, drawing nearer and nearer. Presently she heard the fall of feet on the sidewalk before the house, and the low tones of voices in hurried consultation. And then a clear baritone voice rose, and she heard it begin the song: