"N-no,—I w-want to tell you now,—only,—I c-can't talk. Oh, Mother, what shall I d-do? G-Gladys—"
"Yes, dear; Gladys,—what did she do? Or perhaps you and Gladys—"
Mrs. Maynard now surmised that the two girls were in some mischievous scrape, and she felt positive that Marjorie had been the instigator, as indeed she usually was.
"Oh, Mother, darling," as something in Mrs. Maynard's tone made Marjorie smile a little through her tears, "it isn't mischief! It's a thousand times worse than that!"
Middy was quieter now, with the physical calm that always follows a storm of tears.
"It's this; Gladys is going away! Forever! I mean, they're all going to move away,—out west, and I'll never see her again!"
Mrs. Maynard realized at once what this meant to Marjorie. The girls were such good friends, and neither of them cared so much for any one else, as for each other. The Fultons lived just across the street, and had always lived there, through both the little girls' lives. It was almost like losing her own brother or sister, for Marjorie and Gladys were as lovingly intimate as two sisters could be.
Also, it seemed a case where no word of comfort or cheer could be spoken.
So Mrs. Maynard gently caressed her troubled child, and said:
"My poor, darling Midget; I'm so sorry for you. Are you sure? Tell me all about it."