“What’s the use of all this, Penelope? Edith is her aunt, and one of her guardians. And the child hasn’t been abused. Don’t conjure up horrors.”
Penelope bowed her white forehead into her long slender hands.
“I can’t bear it!” she whispered.
“We’ll have to bear it,” said Aunt Eunice in a steady, calm voice. There were no tears in her old eyes, but their patient look was very weary. “At least we’ll get all the comfort we can out of the weeks that are left. Four weeks at least she’ll be with us.”
“No, we haven’t even that,” Penelope cried bitterly. “They’ve changed their plans. I had a letter from that woman in this same mail. They don’t want to unsettle the child—as if they really cared! We’re not to tell her. As if I would, under any circumstances. Their dates are uncertain—it’s like their selfishness to leave us in such cruel doubt. They’ve cut their Alaskan trip short—fickle, stupid people!”
“Penelope! Don’t!”
“I can’t help it. I loathe them both. They’ll wire us—oh, they’re so considerate! And they may turn up in Longmeadow any day after next week—and then they’ll take Jack’s little girl away from us!”
CHAPTER XXXII
THE HORNS OF A DILEMMA
Here were no cool sea breezes in the Meadows. No sand toys, either, and even if there had been, a big girl, going on eleven, in a house where there was sickness, had no time to play.
Jacqueline cooked and scrubbed and swept and tended babies, and kept Neil and Dickie in their places, too.