"Jessie!"
"I'm coming, aunt. What is the matter?"
The voice was broken and appealing. Miss Perkins stood at the foot of the stairs, holding the baluster with one hand, and holding her side with the other. She breathed hard, as if she had been running up-hill, and her face was yellow-white. The first impression made upon the minds of them both was that Miss Perkins had been taken ill.
"Let me help you into the dining-room," Mildred said kindly. "Lean upon me—so—don't be afraid. You will feel better presently."
"Can't I get anything?" asked Jessie.
"It isn't—it isn't—me! I'm all right," gasped Miss Perkins. "At least—I'm only—only—it gave me a turn—made me feel like—" and she hid her face in her handkerchief.
"What was it that gave you a turn?" asked Mildred, she and Jessie exchanging glances.
Miss Perkins shuddered.
"Come in here, and sit down. Jessie, get a glass of water, dear. Thank you. Now, Miss Perkins, take a sip or two. Has anything happened?"
Miss Perkins groaned.