Patty went over and lifted a curtain to look out of the window.
“Oh-ee!” she cried out, “it’s coming down thicker’n ever! How can Mona get here? They’ll be snowbound, half way here! Phil, please go and telephone; I must know if they’ve started.”
“Better go quick,” laughed Herron, “before the telephone wires are down. It’s that wet, heavy snow that weighs the wires down fearfully.”
“All right,” and Phil started for the telephone booth.
“They’ll get here,” opined Bumble; “you worry over nothing, Patty Pink.”
“They can’t get here unless they started some time ago,” Herron said; “the roads are getting worse every minute.”
“Roger will manage somehow,” Helen went on. “I know him of old,—and he isn’t to be baulked by a few flakes of snow.”
But Phil returned looking serious.
“They’re not coming,” he announced, briefly, meeting Patty’s startled eyes squarely, but apologetically. “Not on account of the storm, but because Mona’s father arrived, and he isn’t well and Mona won’t leave him. She says to tell you she’s awfully sorry, but it seems her father is really pretty ill, and she can’t get away.”
“Then we must go right home,” said Patty, very decidedly. “You know yourself, Phil, we two girls can’t stay here without Mona—or somebody.”