She thought a great deal about her father and mother; they were more real
to her than they had been for a long time; but it was hard to connect the
Ernestine of that home with the Ernestine who belonged to Karl. There was
Georgia, to be sure, who extended clear through. Dear Georgia--how well
she had looked Sunday in that beautiful black gown. She remembered such a
funny thing, and such a dear thing, Georgia had done once. They had
become chums as freshmen and when they were sophomores Georgia came to
their house to live, and one night she inadvertently said something
which started one of those terrible arguments, and ended in the saying
of so many bitter things that Ernestine could not bear it--especially
before Georgia, and as soon as she could she left the table and went
up to her room. She did not cry, her mother cried so much that it seemed
enough for the family, but she sat there very still looking straight
ahead--denying herself even the luxury of tears. And then, just when
that atmosphere of unhappiness and bitterness seemed pressing down
upon her--crushing her--there had come a wild shriek from
Georgia--"Ernestine--Ernestine--get your things quick--let's go to the
fire!"
That was not to be resisted even by a nineteen-year-old girl.
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