"Now, look here, you've all got to get out of this as soon as possible," ordered Mr. Valentine. "There's more to come down, yet, maybe; and any part of the house may give way, after such a shake. You get hats and shawls, sharp—eh, what? Everything in the back rooms! Well, pick up what wraps you can."
"Where are we to go, father?" asked Prue.
"Out of this, my girl! That's certain! Somewhere over the street we must get taken in, I suppose."
[CHAPTER XVI.]
A PERSONAL APPEAL.
AS the train came in, Wallace gazed about for the delicate shy child of his recollection; and failing to find her, he laughed at himself. Of course she was child no longer. He had to find a young lady; and what particular type of young lady, it was impossible so much as to guess. For a while, nobody presented herself who could in any degree answer to the mental picture which he failed to banish. And he began to think that she must either have failed to arrive or have betaken herself off, when a gloved hand touched his.
"How do you do?" a sober voice said.
And Wallace's curious gaze met a pale girlish face, with brown eyes, wistful and sad as ever of old. Late trouble had brought back the look which he knew, which a few weeks earlier would have been lacking.
"How do you do?" she repeated, with a faint smile, into which some amusement stole.
"I'm very sorry. I ought to have seen—I mean, of course, I couldn't know you," apologised Wallace, trying to take her bag.