“Sidney’s sick; we just got the letter. Mother’s going to camp to-morrow.”
“Sidney sick! Who wrote? What’s the matter?”
“He did. He’s not much sick, but he doesn’t feel just right. He’s in the hospital. I guess he can’t be much sick, if he wrote, himself. Mother wasn’t to come, he said, but she’s going.”
“Of course.” Nervous fear clutched 215 Elliott’s throat, like an icy hand. Oh, poor Aunt Jessica! Poor Laura!
“Where are they?” she asked.
“In Mumsie’s room,” said Priscilla. “We’re all helping.”
Elliott mounted the stairs. She had to force her feet along, for they wished, more than anything else, to run away. What should she say? She tried to think of words. As it turned out, she didn’t have to say anything.
Laura was the only person in Aunt Jessica’s room when they reached it. She sat in a low chair by a window, mending a gray blouse.
“Elliott’s come to help, too,” announced Priscilla.
“That’s good,” said Laura. “You can put a fresh collar and cuffs in this gray waist of Mother’s, Elliott—I’ll have it done in a minute—while I go set the crab-apple jelly to drip. And perhaps you can mend this little tear in her skirt. 216 Then I’ll press the suit. There isn’t anything very tremendous to do.”