At that moment the lady swept on her way downstairs.
“The terms seem reasonable enough,” we heard her observe, “and the room is sunny and pleasant. I should want a comfortable cot placed in it for Lilian,”—the little girl. “You have children of your own, Mrs. Graham?” Then, stopping in the lower hall,—
“Is that an invalid chair?” she asked, abruptly.
“Yes,” returned mother. “It belongs to my little son;—he is not at all well this winter.”
“And his trouble?” There was no hint of sympathy in the question.
“Hip complaint,” replied mother. “Robin has not been strong since he was a baby.”
“In that case, I am sorry, but it will be impossible to engage the room,” came the unexpected reply. “Lilian is a very sensitive child,—and, naturally, my first consideration. I make it a rule to shield her from every depressing influence. Let me see,—there are three other places on our list. If we hurry, we can make time to visit them this afternoon. Good-day, Mrs. Graham.” The door closed sharply on our prospective boarders.
And this on a Friday,—the bluest day in the week!
Mother’s face was quite white and stern as she came upstairs.
“If you will get dinner, Elizabeth, I’ll stay with Robin,” she said. And she took Bobsie in her arms, and carried him tenderly to the big rocker in the window, while Ernie and I crept, mouse-like, from the room.