"Our little yard ain't half big enough for all our
clothes, and it is sunnier there, too."
So Cordelia had hung out the wash there for four Mondays, and this
was the fifth. The breakfast was about half finished--they had
reached the buckwheat cakes--when this maid came rushing into the
dining-room and stood regarding them, speechless, with a
countenance indicative of the utmost horror. She was deadly pale.
Her hands, sodden with soapsuds, hung twitching at her sides in the
folds of her calico gown; her very hair, which was light and
sparse, seemed to bristle with fear. All the Townsends turned and
looked at her. David and George rose with a half-defined idea of
burglars.
"Cordelia Battles, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Townsend.
Adrianna gasped for breath and turned as white as the maid. "What
is the matter?" repeated Mrs. Townsend, but the maid was unable to
speak. Mrs. Townsend, who could be peremptory, sprang up, ran to
the frightened woman and shook her violently. "Cordelia Battles,
you speak," said she, "and not stand there staring that way, as if
you were struck dumb! What is the matter with you?"
Then Cordelia spoke in a fainting voice.
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