This event at last took place. She saw her--at the window--mount the
steps, and she went to await her in the hall, where she pounced upon
her as soon as she had entered the house, and drew her into the
parlour, closing the door with solemnity. Catherine was flushed, and
her eye was bright. Mrs. Penniman hardly knew what to think.
"May I venture to ask where you have been?" she demanded.
"I have been to take a walk," said Catherine. "I thought you had
gone to church."
"I did go to church; but the service was shorter than usual. And
pray, where did you walk?"
"I don't know!" said Catherine.
"Your ignorance is most extraordinary! Dear Catherine, you can trust
me."
"What am I to trust you with?"
"With your secret--your sorrow."
"I have no sorrow!" said Catherine fiercely.
"My poor child," Mrs. Penniman insisted, "you can't deceive me. I
know everything. I have been requested to--a--to converse with you."
"I don't want to converse!"
"It will relieve you. Don't you know Shakespeare's lines?--'the
grief that does not speak!' My dear girl, it is better as it is."
"What is better?" Catherine asked.
She was really too perverse. A certain amount of perversity was to
be allowed for in a young lady whose lover had thrown her over; but
not such an amount as would prove inconvenient to his apologists.
"That you should be reasonable," said Mrs.
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