“Yes,” said the girl, her white face and trembling lips telling of her struggle for self-control.
“And you let him go?”
“He had to go—it was his place to go.”
“She’s right, mother,” broke in Jack. “He had to go. I’m proud of the boy. An’ I’ll see no harm comes to him.”
“Thank you, dad,” said Mamie, simply, and kissed him. “You’ll telephone as soon as the danger’s over?”
“Yes,” Jack promised; “an’ don’t be worried.”
They heard the front door slam after him, and the house was still.
“I’m going to get dressed,” said Mamie; “then—then if anything happens, we’ll be ready.”
She stole away to her room, but she did not proceed immediately to dress. Instead, she slipped down beside her bed and threw her arms forward across it and buried her face in them—and when, five minutes later, she arose, it was with a countenance pale, indeed, but serene and almost smiling.
She found her mother awaiting her in the dining-room, and they sat down together and—waited. There is no harder task, and as the weary minutes dragged along, they dared not look at each other, lest their self-control slip from them. So half an hour passed, until Mrs. Welsh could stand it no longer.