"Frip! what is it? Frip, tell me! I'm only just come in. What is the matter?"
Frip said one word—"Merryl!" and burst into tears.
"Go on! Go on!" commanded Magda.
"She is—oh, so bad!" sobbed Frip. "And the doctor has been. And he says—she never, never ought to have gone! Her head did ache so, and her throat was sore, and I begged her so to let you take the note. But she said you couldn't—you were busy—and she wouldn't let me worry mother—and I couldn't find Pen."
"She never told me her head ached," spoke Magda miserably.
"She didn't tell me; but I saw. Of course I saw. And I do wish now I'd told mother, though she said I mustn't. She said perhaps the ride would do her good. But it didn't. When she tried to get up, after lunch, she nearly fainted right off. And then she said she had tumbled off her bicycle twice, coming home; and the second time she banged her head against the gate-post, and it hurt her so dreadfully, she could hardly get indoors. And the doctor says nobody is to go into her room, except mother; and she's to be taken to the end spare room; and Pen has gone out to find a nurse. And I don't know what to do without Merryl!"
Magda felt guilty and unhappy. It was easy to see that even little Francie blamed her; and for once she had no words of self-defence to offer.
Penrose came in, grave and sad. "Is Frip here?" she said. Then—"So you have come back!" Magda heard reproach in the tone.
"Yes. What is the matter with Merryl?"
Pen did not at once reply. "Come, Frip, dear," she said. "You had better run into the garden."