“Marilla, will you go to the parlor and ask that lady to come up here,—Mrs. Henderson. Bridget thinks—oh, and we ought to have a doctor! I must telephone.”
“And then can I stay with the babies?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Poor babies!” Marilla fairly stopped them with witch hazel. Their little fat hands and their shoulders were swollen already. She kissed them, but she couldn’t take them both and they wanted to be cuddled. So she sat down and hugged them and really cried herself.
Bridget came down, “She isn’t dead but she’s a mighty hard faint on her. And what happened to the children?”
Marilla explained in a broken voice.
“Oh, the murtherin’ little devil! You take one and I’ll comfort ’tother. But you can’t lift her.”
No; Marilla couldn’t lift such a dead weight. Bridget walked the floor and patted Pansy and crooned over her, but the hurt was pretty deep. 42
Aunt Florence came down.
“She’s over the faint. Mrs. Henderson is going to stay a while. Oh, poor babies!”