Mellicent heartily complied, and the two girls went down into the neat, quiet kitchen to begin operations. The fire was in rather a dubious state for baking, it was discovered. “We’ll get a little wood and start it up,” said Persis. “Suppose you go after the wood, Mellicent, while I get the other things together.” And Mellicent started for the cellar, while Persis went to the pantry. The latter was energetically sifting flour, when a clattering sound, a heavy fall, and a pitiful cry reached her ears.
Running to the head of the stairs leading to the cellar, she peered down into the dimness, calling, “Mell, Mellicent, where are you?” A moan was the only reply. “Oh, Mell!” reiterated Persis in alarm, as she hastily took her way down the steep steps. “What is the matter?”
At the foot of the steps Mellicent lay in a confused heap. “Oh, you dear child! Oh, Melly! Are you hurt?” And Persis tried to lift her sister.
“I feel queer,” replied Mellicent. “I believe I have done something to my arm, I can’t raise it.”
Persis helped the little girl to her feet, and then, half carrying her, she managed to get her up the stairway. Mellicent’s white face showed that something serious had really happened.
“Tell grandma,” she said, and then she fainted.
Afraid to leave her, and yet hardly knowing what to do, Persis ran to the foot of the stairs and called, loudly, “Grandma! Grandma! come quick!”
To see the baby of the family lying on the kitchen floor, with closed eyes and looking so pale, terrified Mrs. Estabrook, and she cried, “Oh, my child! what is it? Run for the doctor.” And Persis flew out, forgetting that she still wore her floury apron.
The doctor who lived a block away was not at home, and back again ran Persis, out of breath.
By this time Mellicent’s consciousness was restored, and she was sitting in her grandmother’s lap. “I am afraid she has broken her arm,” announced Mrs. Estabrook, in distress. “The doctor ought to see her at once.”