When she handed coffee to her sister, Lauretta took it, sipped from the cup, then set cup into saucer and saucer on her lap. “Thank you.” Her eyes blinked rapidly as if fevered and in need of cooling. “You would oblige me greatly, Sarah, if you told Aunt Pea I am not well enough for church.”

“Certainly,” Sarah said, “but won’t you dress and come down for breakfast?”

“Oh no, I cannot do that.”

“I shall send Ricey up with a tray. Is there anything special you think you might fancy?”

“Nothing at all. No tray. Nothing, please, Sarah. Sarah dear.”

Her shaking hands, her distracted eyes, moved the younger sister deeply, and Sarah rose and went downstairs, strengthened in her resolve to be her sister’s protector. She would honor her need for privacy and see that others did so.

Penelope accepted word of Lauretta’s indisposition casually. After routine expressions of concern and sympathy, she put Lauretta out of her mind. Sunday would be easier without Lauretta’s pertness.

The morning mist evaporated, and the day turned fine and sunny. Sarah and Penelope opened parasols to hold between themselves and the blinding sun and walked to St. John’s in South Broad Street. Arriving when it was still early for services, they strolled in the cemetery and looked on the graves of their fathers and mothers.

Lauretta did not come downstairs for the midday Sunday dinner. She did, however, dress herself and walk in the garden when the sun went down; and she came in to join her sister and aunt for their usual early Sunday supper. Clarice had baked fresh rolls. Otherwise, the food was what had been left over from dinner, pieced out with relishes. Clarice offered a dessert of gingerbread and apple sauce, traditional for Sunday night cold supper, but only Sarah ate it.

After supper, Lauretta asked to be excused, as she thought she would be better quiet in her room. Penelope was so pleased by her subdued manner that she gave Ricey a glass of sherry to take to her when Ricey went upstairs to refill bedroom pitchers with water for the night, and to draw curtains.

When Sarah and Penelope retired an hour later, there was no light under the door and no sound from Lauretta’s room. Another half hour and Penelope was asleep and snoring. Sarah heard the sound of it across the hallway, even though both their doors were closed. Feeling lonely, she blew out her candle and then went to the window to look out. The mist of the morning that had been dissipated by the day’s sun had now returned, spreading mystery over the garden below where she had seen Uncle Joshua and Ichabod walking that morning. The smell of jasmine set her mind to dreamy music until she remembered her sister’s sorrow. Saying a prayer for Lauretta, Sarah went to bed and to sleep.