Grandfather said it was an admirable address, scholarly and
convincing, or something like that. And he said that he thought Dr.
Anderson had improved greatly in looks and manner. And he looked
straight at Mother when he said that; but still Mother never said a
word.

In the afternoon I went to walk with one of the girls; and when I came
in I couldn't find Mother. She wasn't anywhere downstairs, nor in her
room, nor mine, nor anywhere else on that floor. Aunt Hattie said no,
she wasn't out, but that she was sure she didn't know where she was.
She must be somewhere in the house.

I went upstairs then, another flight. There wasn't anywhere else to
go, and Mother must be _somewhere_, of course. And it seemed suddenly
to me as if I'd just _got_ to find her. I _wanted_ her so.

And I found her.

In the little back room where Aunt Hattie keeps her trunks and
moth-ball bags, Mother was on the floor in the corner crying. And when
I exclaimed out and ran over to her, I found she was sitting beside
an old trunk that was open; and across her lap was a perfectly lovely
pale-blue satin dress all trimmed with silver lace that had grown
black. And Mother was crying and crying as if her heart would break.

Of course, I tried and tried to stop her, and I begged her to tell me
what was the matter. But I couldn't do a thing, not a thing, not for
a long time. Then I happened to say what a lovely dress, only what a
pity it was that the lace was all black.