"She will say—that," Mary answered, trying to conquer the shake in her voice. For, though she was quite determined not to stay behind when her husband went to Africa, it nearly broke her heart to think of leaving her darling Ivy.
"We must tell her."
"She is so sweet, so reasonable," murmured Mrs. Croft. "She will understand—that it has to be."
"I'll tell her. You must leave it to me."
"No, no, Fred. Not you. You have enough to think about. I shall do it!"
Mary Croft always tried to spare other people.
"I don't believe you can."
"Yes, I can. And I know you can't. I shall explain how it is. Somehow, one always talks to Ivy as one would to a grown-up person. Dear, you will write at once to Miss Storey. Tell her how grateful we are; how I love her for it; how sweet our pet is. I'll write too, but not to-day."
"Sh—sh!" murmured Mr. Croft, as the door opened, and a child came softly in.
Then, in a moment, he knew that he could not possibly make up his mind to tell little Ivy of the coming separation. He could not do it. He was a brave man, but that was beyond his powers.