Penniman, with a degree of tact that was as unusual as it was
commendable, took the line of leaving her alone. The truth is, that
her suspicions having been aroused, she indulged a desire, natural to
a timid person, that the explosion should be localised. So long as
the air still vibrated she kept out of the way.
She passed and repassed Catherine's door several times in the course
of the evening, as if she expected to hear a plaintive moan behind
it. But the room remained perfectly still; and accordingly, the last
thing before retiring to her own couch, she applied for admittance.
Catherine was sitting up, and had a book that she pretended to be
reading. She had no wish to go to bed, for she had no expectation of
sleeping. After Mrs. Penniman had left her she sat up half the
night, and she offered her visitor no inducement to remain. Her aunt
came stealing in very gently, and approached her with great
solemnity.
"I am afraid you are in trouble, my dear. Can I do anything to help
you?"
"I am not in any trouble whatever, and do not need any help," said
Catherine, fibbing roundly, and proving thereby that not only our
faults, but our most involuntary misfortunes, tend to corrupt our
morals.
"Has nothing happened to you?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Are you very sure, dear?"
"Perfectly sure."
"And can I really do nothing for you?"
"Nothing, aunt, but kindly leave me alone," said Catherine.
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