"A baby's lots of trouble," said Mrs. Dunstall, thoughtfully.
"Yes, but we're here for trouble," said Mrs. Ray, cheerfully. "I've got the post-office, Lucy's got the baby, and poor Clay Wright Benton's got his mother and the parrot. Everybody's got something!"
"Well, I can't wait any longer," said Mrs. Dunstall; "good-bye. Come, Pinkie."
They went out.
"Who is Pinkie?" the young man asked, when he was alone with Mrs. Ray. "I d'n know," said Mrs. Ray, "she don't, either. They adopted her when she weighed six pounds and named her Pinkie, and that's what come of it."
"I see." Just then the mail-bag was brought in.
CHAPTER VI
WHEN DIFFERENCES LEAD TO WHAT IS EVER THE SAME
Lassie fled down the path. Not even that primeval river which once rushed wildly across the old Devonian rocks just here was more thoughtless as to whither it was going. All that she was conscious of in that instant was irresistible revolt against the horror of what she had just heard, and which bred in her a sudden and utter rebellion. A vivid imagination will have already pictured the possible effect of Alva's story upon her friend, and that vast majority whose imaginations are not vivid will be happy to be spared such details. It is sufficient to say that tears, pain, groans, and a coffin suspended, like Damocles' sword, above all the rest, was Lassie's background to her friend's romance; and the picture thus held in her mind was so benumbing to her other senses that as she ran she tripped, stumbled, almost fell, down the hill, so blind and careless of all else had she become. The restraint of Alva's presence was now removed; nothing stood between the young girl and her sensation of appalling wretchedness. As she ran she shook, she shuddered; the path was steep, and her knees seemed to crumble beneath her; twice she almost went headlong, and at the minute she felt that a broken neck was but a trifle in comparison to coming face to face with anything like what she had just been told. "Of course he was a great man," she gasped half aloud; "but he'll never be able to even feed himself again—it said so in the paper. Why, at first it said his back was broken. Oh, oh, if Alva can be so crazy as that, who is sane, and what can one believe? Oh, dear—oh, dear—oh, dear! And she calls it love, too!"