She couldn't understand it, this indifference on the part of
her family. The ticket agent came out and was about to lock the door. He
was going home to his mid-day dinner.
"I am Grace Wainwright," she said, appealing to him. "Do you not suppose
some one is coming to meet me?"
"Oh, you be Dr. Wainwright's darter that's been to foreign parts, be
you? Waal, miss, the doctor he can't come because he's been sent for to
set Mr. Stone's brother's child's arm that he broke jumping over a
fence, running away from a snake. But I guess somebody'll be along soon.
Like enough your folks depended on Mr. Burden; he drives a stage, and
reckons to meet passengers, and take up trunks, but he's sort o'
half-baked, and he's afraid to bring his old horse out when it
rains--'fraid it'll catch the rheumatiz. You better step over to my
house 'long o' me; somebody'll be here in the course of an hour."
Grace's face flushed. It took all her pride to keep back a rush of
angry, hurt tears. To give up Paris, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Hattie,
and her winter of music and art, and come to the woods and be treated in
this way! She was amazed and indignant. But her native good sense showed
her there was, there must be, some reason for what looked like neglect.
Then came a tender thought of mamma. She wouldn't treat her thus.
"Did a telegram from me reach Dr. Wainwright last evening?" Grace
inquired, presently.
The agent fidgeted and looked confused.
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